


Strong Enough to Bend

by Xerxia



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Separations, everlark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:01:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6343237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xerxia/pseuds/Xerxia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bent, but not broken; when their relationship falls apart, can they put things back together? Rated M for coarse language and sexual situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

For years we have stayed together,  
As lovers and as friends.  
What we have will last forever  
If we're strong enough to bend.

 

* * *

 

 

The stack of invoices in front of me are mostly reconciled when I finally glance up at the clock in my office. 11:30 at night. How the hell did that happen? No wonder I'm starving. I'll have to finish them in the morning.

 

I stand and stretch the crick out of my back. I should really put a couch in here, so I don't have to drive home on nights like tonight, when I'm so swamped. One more thing to add to my mental to-do list.

 

It's past midnight when I finally stagger to my car. The drive home is only 10 minutes, that's part of the reason I chose this location for my bakery. And thank goodness it's close because I drive home on autopilot, more asleep than awake at this point.

 

My house is dark, of course. Katniss will have gone to bed hours ago, she's a teacher and leaves early in the mornings. Not as early as I do, but that's my own fault. Bakers keep early hours.

 

I don’t want to wake her, so I drop my jacket on the floor in the front hall and tip-toe into the living room. I barely slide my shoes off before crashing onto the couch.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s the sun that wakes me, filtering in through the living room sheers. I pry one eye open and try desperately to focus on the clock that sits on our fireplace mantel.  

 

6:30.

 

Shit!!! Shit, shit, shit, I am late. I am so, so fucking late. I must have forgotten to set an alarm on my phone before passing out. Shit, I don’t think I even took my phone out of my jacket pocket when I got home.  

 

I tear up the stairs, not bothering to be quiet because Katniss will be awake by now. Sure enough, the bed is empty, already neatly made. She’s not in our bedroom though, nor in the attached bath.  I take a peek out the window, her car isn’t in the driveway. She’s already left for work. I can’t believe she left without waking me. She must be ticked off with me for working late again last night. I guess I don’t blame her, it’s been happening a lot lately, and I didn’t even call. I meant to, of course, I just got engrossed in what I was doing and lost track of time.

 

As I climb into the shower I think about Katniss, how little we’ve seen of each other lately. I need to make that up to her. Maybe we can do something this weekend.  If I work just a half day Sunday I could make her breakfast in bed, like I used to when we were first dating. Might be doable, if I stay late again tonight.

 

My shower is fast; in and out, hair towelled dry, teeth brushed in less than 10 minutes. No time to shave but I imagine my boss will give me a pass on that, especially since I am the boss. Perks of owning my own business. I dress without even noticing what I’m wearing, and jog back downstairs.  No time for breakfast, but I’ll grab a bagel at the bakery.

 

My jacket is still crumpled on the floor in the front hall and it pulls me up short. It’s really not like Katniss to have left it there, of the two of us she’s the tidy one, and she’d have had to literally step over it when she left. Maybe she’s more angry than I though. Well damn. I’d better call her.

 

My phone is in my jacket pocket, but it’s dead. And that’s the only reason I notice it.

 

I keep a spare phone charger in the drawer of our little entryway table. When we first moved here I used to buy flowers for Katniss all of the time, and she’d keep them in a vase on this table. But there hasn’t been a vase of flowers here in a long time. Normally there’s nothing at all on this table. But today… today there is a giant piece of faceted glass.

 

Katniss’s keychain.

 

I gave her that keychain when we first moved in together five years ago, both fresh out of college, wide-eyed and ready to take on the world. The keyring is shaped like an obnoxiously oversized engagement ring, the glass cut to look like a massive diamond, the band big enough to fit over three of Katniss’s fingers together. I remember her peals of laughter when I presented it to her, and the celebrating we did right after, in our shitty apartment with nothing but a mattress on the floor and our dreams. She’s carried that tchotchka around ever since, weighed down with house key and car key and office key and all of the other bits that key rings accumulate.

 

But now it sits on my entryway table, with only a single key on it. The key to our home.

 

It takes far too long for my brain to catch up to what my eyes are seeing. I roll that piece of glass around in my hands, watching the light refract off facets chipped with use. Rainbows dance on the wall as I try to guess why her house key is here and she isn’t. And then I drop the key and bolt for the stairs.

 

Her side of the closet is empty.  Her drawers are empty. Her toothbrush and shampoo and make up bag are gone. Still, I refuse to believe what I’m seeing. This is a mistake, I’m just confused, it's not real!

 

A flash of orange catches my eye.  A little corner of muted orange fabric snakes over the edge of the wastepaper basket, and curiosity drives me to pull it from the bin. It’s a silk negligee, beautifully made, clearly brand new. It’s gorgeous, the perfect combination of sexy and sweet, a look that suits Katniss so well. It’s even my favourite colour.

 

And it’s in the trash.

 

A cold horror grips me, and I run back downstairs for the phone I left beside her key.

 

My hands are shaking so hard when I plug in the phone and turn it on that I nearly drop it multiple times. Finally, finally, it finishes booting. I dismiss the missed call notification so I can read the date.

 

April 8th. Today is April 8th. The day after our anniversary.

 

We’re not married, but April 7th has been special to Katniss and me since we were kids. It was April 7th of the year we were in 4th grade when she told me I was her best friend forever. It was April 7th, several years later, when she kissed me for the first time. April 7th when we decided to become boyfriend and girlfriend. April 7th when we committed to moving in together.  

 

I’ve always planned on proposing to her on April 7th. One day.

 

It rushes back, yesterday morning. I was distracted; getting ready while my mind was occupied with the thousand things I needed to get done at the bakery. And Katniss had been in bed, hair wild, eyes hooded with sleep. _“You’ll be home for dinner tonight, right Peeta?” s_ he’d asked me so shyly, and I’d barely listened. I think I told her I would. I don’t think I even kissed her goodbye.

 

I stagger into the kitchen, my knees wobbly, but before I can reach for a glass of water I catch a glimpse of our dining room. And it’s like a spear through the chest.

 

The table is beautifully set with my grandmother’s china. A bottle of champagne sits in a bucket of tepid water. The tablecloth is crusted with pools of wax from candles that burned down to stubs waiting for me to come home last night.

 

When I look in the fridge I feel even worse, if that’s possible. A salad of dandelion greens and berries. A platter of strawberries.  A tureen that I know even before I lift the lid contains lamb stew with dried plums. Our favourite meal.

 

I have no idea how long I lurch from room to room, looking for any clue that there’s been a mistake. But there’s no mistake.  She’s gone.

 

Katniss left me.

 

And worse, she must have left last night. My Katniss, the love of my life, left me a day ago and I didn’t even notice. I didn’t notice her car missing when I crawled home hours later than I’d promised. I slept in the house alone and I didn’t even fucking notice. I am the worst excuse for a human being who ever lived.

 

I try calling her, but I’m not at all surprised when it goes to voicemail. The message I leave is disjointed and watery, filled with apologies. I send a half dozen texts begging her to call when she turns on her phone.

* * *

 

 

It’s nearly eight when I get to the bakery, more than two hours late and so shell-shocked I can barely function. Thresh, my day manager, calls out to me as soon as I walk through the kitchen door. “About time you showed up, boss-man! I was gettin’ ready to call in the cavalry!” He turns then, and raises an eyebrow when he sees me. “Damn, Peet, you look wrecked. Are you sick?”

 

I can only shake my head as I move across from him, leaning heavily on one of the prep tables.  “Katniss left me.” It’s the first time I’ve acknowledged it out loud, barely a whisper but it echoes through my hollow guts.  Thresh nods, but doesn’t look surprised. I was completely blindsided and yet he reacts like I’ve just told him the sky is blue.  “Thresh? Why do you not seem surprised?” Maybe it’s wrong of me to put him on the spot but I don’t fucking care right now.

 

He shrugs and looks away, fiddling with a tray of cooling buns. But I wait him out, and finally he clears his throat. “I, uh, well I assumed you two had already broken up,” he admits, and my jaw drops. “It’s just,” he continues. “Well, I mean, she hasn’t been around here for a long time. You haven’t mentioned her in months. And, well honestly Peet, the hours you keep? I just assumed you were avoiding going home. Guys with pretty girls waiting for them don’t usually work twenty hour days.” He pauses. “Every day,” he adds quietly.

 

Thankfully there’s a stool behind me because my legs can no longer bear my weight. Thresh, a man I consider one of my closest friends, a person I spend more time with than, well, anyone else really. Thresh thought Katniss and I broke up long ago. “I… I don’t talk about her?” It’s my voice, but it hardly sounds like me, strained and small. He looks up then, catching my eyes and I can see he’s completely serious as he slowly shakes his head, back and forth.

 

“You worked through Easter,” he reminds me. “And Valentine’s day.  I think the last time I remember her name coming up was when you made that orange cake for New Year's.” More than three months ago. I haven’t mentioned the love of my life, the woman I’ve been in love with since before I even knew what that meant, in more than three months? Not even in passing?  

 

“Yesterday was our anniversary. I missed it. I… I didn’t even call her to tell her I wouldn’t be home.” The lump in my throat thickens, I can’t speak any more. I can barely breathe.

 

He comes around the table and claps me on the back. “I’m really sorry, Peet. Maybe you should get out of here, take a couple of days to pull yourself together.” I start to protest but I know he’s right, I can’t possibly get anything done, not like this. Not with how screwed up my head is. With how screwed up my life is.

 

“The invoices,” I start, but he shakes his head, pushing me towards the door.

 

“I’ll take care of it, Peeta. Go home.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

I call her over and over, filling her voicemail box, and when I can’t leave any more voice messages I text. I send every permutation of ‘sorry’ I can think of, as I pace the house, alternating between raging and crying, clutching my phone like a talisman. Finally, just after noon it rings.

 

“Katniss,” I nearly weep as I pick it up, not giving her an opportunity to speak, “Katniss, my love, I am so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

 

“Please stop calling me, Peeta,” she says quietly. Her voice is cold, but strained; I can hear the pain in every syllable.

 

“No, please, we need to talk, we can fix this, please talk to me, please!” I’m prepared to grovel, to beg, to promise anything she wants. She sighs.

 

“We do need to talk, but not now.  I can’t do this now. I need some time.”  

 

“Katniss, please, come home. I’m so sorry!” I don’t even attempt to restrain the tears, this can’t be the end of us. We’re supposed to be together always! There’s a long pause before she replies.

 

“You’re always sorry, Peeta.  Every time. That’s just not good enough anymore.” And then the line goes dead.

 

* * *

 

 

Though I text her repeatedly I only get a single response, ‘ _please give me time._ ’ The afternoon, evening, night pass in a haze of self loathing, I do nothing but sit on my couch, staring at the plain white walls.  

 

This house was only supposed to be a stop gap while we saved up to buy our forever home, so I never invested much time or effort into making it feel like a home, even though we’ve been here more than two years. We chose to rent in this neighbourhood because it’s close to the area I wanted for my bakery. Katniss tried to make it a comfortable space, she hung a couple of my paintings, a few family pictures. She bought throws and fancy pillows in the warm colours I like best. But I never really did anything to make it feel like more than a placeholder.

 

We were only in this house a few months when I finally quit the marketing job I’d gotten right out of college, and opened my bakery. Katniss and I had both worked like dogs, for three solid years, putting aside every nickel we could, so that I could live out my life-long dream of owning a bakery like the one my dad had when I was small. We didn’t travel, we didn’t take vacations, we drove our shitty cars into the ground, all so that we’d have the seed money we needed to make a real go of being business owners.

 

And it worked. It was hard, hell even, especially those first few months. Katniss supported us both financially so I could funnel every cent of profit back into the business. And we managed to grow it more quickly than I’d hoped. I worked long hours those early days, before we could afford much staff. She’d come to the bakery after her own long day at work, help me out, make me dinner, share her day with me as I shared mine with her.

 

I can’t remember when that stopped.

 

I have staff now. Thresh, who is my day manager. Two early morning bakers. Four different full and part time front shop staff. I even hired a pastry chef, to take over decorating the fancy cakes I used to do myself. But somehow I’m still working long hours. Katniss suggested that I let Thresh take on more responsibility, or hire a clerk, so that I wouldn’t be stuck with all of the paperwork, but I brushed off her suggestion, insisting that it was my bakery and I needed to be doing those things. That was a long time ago too, I think.

 

Eventually I fall asleep on the couch again, too broken to even attempt the stairs.

 

* * *

 

 

Despite Thresh’s edict that I take a few days off I’m at the bakery first thing the next morning. It’s Saturday; Dalton, my weekend baker, is hard at work when I get in. “Hey, boss, wasn’t expecting to see you today.” Dalton is a good guy, I like him, but I’m not really in the mood to be chatting.

 

“I’m just going to be in my office, catching up on some things,” I tell him and he nods. I make myself a cup of tea and grab a scone from the day old rack, then bury myself in my work.

 

Hard work is a great way to avoid wallowing, when Dalton pokes his head in at two to tell me he’s heading out I realize I haven’t moved, even once, from this desk in close to eight hours. How many times, I wonder, have I lost an entire day to this bakery without even realizing it?

 

My phone is face down on the desk, my heart jumps when, flipping it over, I realize I have a text. But it’s not Katniss. It’s Finnick, one of my oldest friends in the world. Next to Katniss, of course. Instead of typing back I call him. “Peet,” he hums, and I can immediately tell that he knows.

 

“Hey Finn.” I don’t even try to disguise my misery. “What’s up?”

 

“Annie told me to invite you to dinner tonight. She said she won’t take no for an answer.” I chuckle, Annie is Finn’s wife, and one of Katniss’s closest friends. We used to spend a lot of time together, the four of us. Another thing that’s fallen by the wayside.

 

“Sure,” I tell him. I need to get started on the supply order, but if I put my nose to the grindstone I can get it done by dinnertime. “What can I bring?” The moment of stunned silence down the line suggests that he was expecting me to try to get out of this. How often have I blown him off, that he’s shocked I’m agreeing?

 

* * *

 

 

I arrive later than I’d planned, to Annie’s very pinched expression. But at least I brought a pie.

 

“You were working?” she asks as she takes the pie, in its Mellark Bakery box.  

 

“Uh, yeah,” I affirm, a little bewildered by her obvious displeasure in the answer. “That’s why I was late. Took a bit longer than I expected.”

 

I think she mumbles _‘it always does’_ as she leads me into their home.

 

But it’s nice to spend time with them, nice to eat an actual hot meal sitting at a table with another human. When was the last time I did? And once Annie thaws, she’s all gentleness with me. When I ask about Katniss they tell me she’s okay, that they’re keeping an eye on her. She’s staying with her Uncle Haymitch, which I’d already guessed. Haymitch raised Katniss and her sister after their parents died; he’s a gruff old dude but he loves Katniss and Prim fiercely.

Finnick tells me that Katniss is pretty shaken up, and that at least gives me some hope. If she didn’t care, she wouldn’t be upset.  

 

* * *

 

 

Sunday morning dawns, I’ve slept maybe four hours in total. Our bed feels all wrong without Katniss’s warm, lithe body pressed against mine. The house is too quiet without her puttering, singing softly under her breath.

 

A quick call to the bakery finds Dalton already well into the morning prep; he assures me that my presence is most definitely not needed. So I make my way down to my own kitchen instead. I can’t remember the last time I baked in here, it’s been weeks, hell, it’s probably been months. Despite that, Katniss has kept it fully stocked with the things she knows I would need.

 

As I lose myself in mixing and kneading a quick dough, to make the cheese buns that have always been her favourite, I wonder why I haven’t done this in such a long time. We make cheese buns at the bakery, it’s true, but I haven’t baked anything there in forever either.

 

I miss baking, it’s what I’ve always wanted to do. When I was a tyke my dad would stand me on a chair in his bakery, let me measure out flour and sugar, mix batters, eventually even letting me frost cupcakes and decorate cookies. When I dreamed about having my own bakery those are the things I saw myself doing. But it hasn't worked out that way.

 

A couple of hours later I have two dozen golden buns cooling and a desperate need to see Katniss. Cheese buns are kind of a shitty peace offering, but they’re all I’ve got. So I tuck a dozen into a plastic container, and head for Haymitch’s house.

 

It hasn’t changed a bit since Katniss first moved here, back when we were 11. The sagging front porch, the shutters that haven't seen paint in two decades. I sit in my car, across the street, trying to steady my nerves. I'm afraid to knock on the door, afraid that she'll slam it in my face or, worse, that Haymitch will answer. When Katniss and I first started dating he told me he always kept a knife on him and he wouldn't hesitate to use it if I broke her heart. Can't say I don't deserve to find out if he was serious.

 

But then I see her, jogging up the street, headphones on, ponytail swinging. We used to jog together; in high school, in college, and after, nearly every morning before work. Of course, that ended with the bakery, I leave home a little after five most mornings, and that's just too early to squeeze in a run. But watching her now, the flex of her lean calves, the sway of her hips, man do I miss it.

 

Fuck do I miss her.

 

My eyes don't leave her form as I climb out of the car and stand on the sidewalk in front of her old house. Her steps falter when she notices me, I can almost see her internal debate as she decides whether to talk to me or to turn on her heel and run. The former wins. “What are you doing here?”  She fiddles with her earbuds, refusing to meet my eyes.

 

I move as close to her as I dare. Beads of perspiration glitter on her smooth olive skin, rivulets roll between her breasts and my dick twitches. She's impossibly sexy. I'm such an idiot. I shake my head just slightly to clear it and hand her the container. “I made you breakfast,” I tell her.

 

Her brows furrow just slightly as she pops open the corner of the lid, then a hint of a smile teases her lips. “Cheese buns,” she says, so softly it's almost reverent. “It's been so long.” I don't think she intends for me to hear the second part but I do. And she's right.

 

“I know, and I'm sorry for that, among so many other things.” I stuff my hands in my pockets and look down, ashamed.

 

“You baked this morning, at ho… at your house?” The way she avoids saying ‘home’ breaks my heart.

 

“At home, yeah,” I emphasize. Our home.

 

“You're not working today?”

 

“Not this morning,” I tell her. “I plan to go in this afternoon though.” Her soft half-smile falls. "You've started running again?”  I’m grasping at anything to keep the conversation going, I just miss her desperately, and I want to fix us.

 

Katniss looks defeated. “I never stopped.” She glances at the house. “I need to go,” she says. “But thank you for this.” She waves the container slightly, and is gone before I can beg her to stay.

 

She texts later though, to tell me how much she enjoyed the cheese buns. And it hurts more than her silence. Because it reminds me how truly easy she is to please, and how very little effort I've put into that lately.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Another early morning after another shitty night tossing and turning in our bed that's far too large without her. I send her a quick text, ‘ _good morning, beautiful, I miss you,_ ’ before jumping in the shower. I know she won't respond, and I'm trying to give her the space she needs, but I want her to know that she's on my mind. Every minute of the day.

 

But at lunchtime my phone buzzes, and it is Katniss. ‘ _We could talk tonight, if you want.'_  I know it's her lunch period, so I call instead of typing back.

 

“Yes, please, any time,” I tell her breathlessly when she answers. Her answering exhale might be relief, or it might be frustration.

 

“Seven, at the coffee shop. Okay?” I'd meet her on the moon if that’s what she wanted, but I'm a little surprised she won't just come to our house or the bakery. But I'm not going to argue.

 

“Yes, that's perfect, thank you Katniss.” I'm elated; we’ll talk, we’ll fix this. I know we will.

 

“Peeta?” Her voice is serious. “Seven.” I sober as I understand what she means immediately. I'd better be there, she's not going to wait again.

 

“I'll be there, love. I swear.”

 

In fact, I'm 15 minutes early, and I order us each a hot chocolate before settling at a table tucked away in the corner. Katniss appears only minutes later, and she takes my breath away. Her hair is down, floating in an ebony cloud around her face. She so seldom wears it down, and it's so beautiful that way. Though it looks different. “You cut your hair,” I blurt as she approaches, and she scowls. I don't understand why.

 

She drops into the chair across from me and I take my seat again. The silence stretches between us, the tension so thick it hurts. “I'm so sorry I missed our anniversary, Katniss. I promise I'll make it up to you.” And though I'm completely sincere she looks at me skeptically before lowering her eyes.

 

“Do you really think that's why I left? Because you forgot our anniversary?” She's practically talking to her cup in her quest to avoid my gaze. But when I don't answer she does look up at me, shaking her head slightly. “That,” her voice cracks, and she pauses to collect herself. “That was just the last straw, Peeta.” Again I say nothing. Last straw? What is she talking about?

 

A flush creeps up her neck, painting a rosy path along her tense jaw. Her eyes flash with fury. “You're unbelievable,” she mutters.

 

“I don't understand,” I start, but she cuts me off.

 

“You don't understand? Dammit Peeta, it's not just one missed night. It's every missed night! I never see you. You left me sitting in a restaurant for hours on Finnick’s birthday because you got stuck at the bakery. You skipped Easter with my family because you wanted to work.”

 

“I didn't want to,” I interject, but she won't let me finish.

 

“You chose to work, so your staff could spend the holiday with their families! You chose your bakery over me. Over us. And you do that every time.”

 

“No, Katniss, nothing means more to me than you do! I love you!”  But she scoffs.

 

“You don't even see me, Peeta!”  She grabs a chunk of her hair roughly. “I cut this three weeks ago!” I'm stunned, how did I not notice? It's a good 10 inches shorter. My slack-jawed expression just pisses her off even more. “Do you know how long it's been since we've made love, Peeta?  Sixty-seven days.”

 

What the actual fuck? There's no way that's right. 67 days is over two months, that'd be… early February? That can't be right. I mean, I know we've slowed down a little. Or, well, a lot I guess, with how busy we've been and how exhausted I am at the end of the day. But we still make love all of the time. Don’t we? Her eyes narrow at me. “You can't remember, can you?” I'm ashamed to admit that I can't. I can't remember the last time we were together. I can’t think of any times, recently. Not a single fucking one.

 

She's talking to her mug again. “It was Thom’s birthday. You and Thresh took him out, remember?”  I nod, though she can't see me. “You came home completely smashed.” That I definitely remember, work the next morning had been brutal. But I don't remember being with Katniss that night. She's studying me now, her expression so sad. “I'm not sure you even knew it was me,” she admits.

 

“Oh Katniss, no, no, it’s always you. There's never been anyone but you. There never could be. Only you.” We lost our virginity together when we were 15, we are each other's first and only. Her eyes are pooling with tears, I want to grab her and hold her and make love to her over and over again, to make up for months of neglect. But I have to settle, instead, for clutching her hand tightly.

 

“I know there's no other women,” she says softly. “Your bakery is your mistress.” Then she laughs, a harsh bark. “No, it's more than that. Your bakery is your home, and your wife, and your kids and all of your friends. It's your entire life. I…” she trails off, pulling her hand away. “I'm not even a roommate any more. I'm just someone you used to know.”

 

I move around the table fast enough to startle her, gripping her arms, desperation welling. “No! No, Katniss, you are everything.” The tears I've been fighting for days spill over. “The bakery is nothing compared to you.” I wrap my arms around her, burying my face in her hair and she lets me. “Please give me another chance, Katniss. I'll change, I swear I will.”

 

She pulls back, cupping my wet cheek with a gentle hand. “I'm not sure you can, Peeta.” Then she stands, stepping away from me. “I need to get back. I think we both have a lot to think about.” At my crestfallen expression she relents. “We’ll talk again soon.”

 

“I love you, Katniss,” I plead.

 

“I love you too. But it's not enough.”

 

And then she's gone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, I know, but that was the best place to leave things for now.


	4. Chapter 4

If nothing else, my talk with Katniss has given me plenty of fodder for re-evaluating my life. I hadn't realized just how single minded I've been. I've become the very definition of a workaholic. And for what? This bakery was supposed to be for **us** , together. But somewhere along the way I lost sight of that. And because of it, I've lost the one thing that really matters.

 

* * *

 

 

“You've got to remind her why she fell in love with you in the first place.” Finn is trying to be helpful, but Katniss and I have been together since we were children, I know her well enough to understand that there's no one single thing I can do to fix this. We haven’t even spoken since last Tuesday, when I saw her at the coffee shop. It’s the longest I’ve gone without hearing her voice since we were nine-year-olds. I send texts, and I get a few cordial replies, but it’s not enough, not nearly. I miss her so much my entire body aches.

 

“It's not that easy, Finn,” I groan into the phone. I am, of course, at work today, but mostly hiding in my office. Apart from some eye rolling from Thresh about working last weekend when he thought I should be home, the staff has left me be all week. My hangdog expression is deterrent enough, I guess.

 

“I'm just saying, Peeta, you were so romantic back in school, it was nauseating. When's the last time you even took her out on a date?”  It's a valid question, but the answer is _I have no idea_. My gut tells me it was her birthday, 11 months ago. “Maybe that's somewhere to start.”

 

I can't take her on a date if she won't talk to me though. I need to start even smaller.

 

Katniss is a creature of habit. I'm leaning against her rusty old Corolla when she leaves the school promptly at 4:45. She's an absolute vision in slim black pants and a blazer, but she looks exhausted, deep violet circles under her eyes mirror my own. She pulls up short when she sees me, but I close the last few steps between us.

 

“Can I walk you home from school?” I ask her, holding out a bouquet of dandelions. Her lips quirk up, just a little, and I know she remembers when it was our 11 year old selves having this exact conversation.

 

“It's an awfully long walk from here,” she hedges, but she takes the weeds I offer.

 

“Maybe I can walk you to your car?” She glances over my shoulder at where her ancient shit box sits not 20 feet away. “The long way,” I add. “Around the block?”

 

“Okay,” she agrees, and I smile for the first time in days.

 

We walk in silence for a bit, but then I ask her about her day, and it surprises her. As she fills me in on the comings and going of her coworkers, the shenanigans of her freshman science students, she relaxes. And I listen in wonder; it's been so long since I've heard anything about her life. Longer still since I've listened to her with all of my attention, instead of half heartedly nodding while planning for the bakery.

 

At some point I take her hand, and she twines her fingers with mine.

 

Though it's a long block it's over far too quickly. We're both laughing when her car comes back into view. My heart sinks, this is the best I've felt in months, I don't want it to end. When we get to the door I lift our entwined hands to my lips, kissing her fingers. “Thank you,” I whisper.

 

She squeezes my hand before letting go, shifting her dandelion posy to dig out her keys. They're on an unadorned brass ring now, as sad and lonely as I am.

 

I open the door for her, holding it while she climbs in and gets settled. “Katniss… I, I really miss you.”

 

Her smile turns sad. “I've been missing you for months, Peeta.”

 

* * *

 

 

I text Katniss each morning when I wake up. When we were first living together, right out of college, I woke her each morning by telling her I loved her, that she was beautiful, that I wanted her. All of that fell by the wayside when I opened the bakery. Why did it take her leaving for me to realize how important that was?

 

We start talking every day on the phone. She calls me during her lunch period. I call her in the evening. Really talking. Not the deep stuff, but the day to day bonding that has been lacking in our lives for so long. At first I guide the conversation back to her, over and over, but eventually she stops me. “Peeta, you can talk about the bakery, I won't get upset.”

 

“I know,” I tell her, though I'm not at all convinced.

 

“It's is your dream, Peeta, I don't want to ruin that for you.” I laugh sadly as I look around my windowless, non-descript office; the stack of ledgers, the ice cold cup of tea that's sat untouched since I got here 6 hours ago.

 

“This isn't my dream, Katniss. This… this isn't what I saw when I envisioned my life.” I let my head fall forward, until it's resting on the desk. “I just wanted to be like my dad.” His death, when I was 9, was the end of my idyllic childhood. Opening this bakery was, down deep, about recapturing that in some way.

 

“He'd be so proud of you, Peeta.”

 

“No!” I cut in. “No, he wouldn't. He'd be ashamed of me, Katniss.”  She gasps, but I'm too far gone. The tears course down my face, pooling on the blotter. “He'd be so ashamed. He never let his work get in the way of what was really important. He never let it affect his family.” She's silent as I struggle to get the words out. “I fucked everything up. I was so focussed on building this business for us that I destroyed us.” And then I can speak no more, sobbing instead.

 

It's quiet for so long I almost think she's hung up. But then her voice tentatively floats down the phone line, across the miles. “It isn't too late, Peeta. You can change things. If you really want to.”

 

“I do,” I admit. And not just to repair our relationship.

 

* * *

 

 

It's lunchtime when Thresh comes into my office. “You've got a visitor, boss.” The twinkle in his eye has me out of my chair and running for the front shop.

 

She's there, Katniss, my love, in all of her gorgeous glory. Before I can think about whether it's a good idea I’ve enveloped her in a hug. She melts into my embrace and I hold her tightly, rocking gently in the sun that streams in the front shop windows. I have missed this so damned much, the way her body fits perfectly with mine, the scent of her hair, her small hands clutching my back.

 

When she pulls back I can see she's just as affected by the contact as I am. “Hi,” she whispers.

 

“Hi,” I return. “I'm happy to see you. Do you want some lunch?” It was Katniss’s idea, long ago, to add sandwiches on artisanal bread to the bakery offerings. They're among the best sellers. But she just shakes her head.

 

“I actually came to ask you a favour. I, uh, need some of my lesson plans from your basement.”

 

“Oh, uh, of course.” My heart sinks. “But it's your house too, Katniss, you don't need to ask me, you can come anytime.” She chuckles.

 

“I don't have a key,” she reminds me, and I nod sadly. I could give her my keys now, that's probably what she's expecting me to do. But I don't.

 

“Are you free tonight? You could come by. I'll make you dinner…” I trail off.

 

“Okay, sure.” It's cautious, but it's a yes.

 

“Yeah? Okay, good, great!” I laugh, and then I hug her again because I can't help myself. “How's six?”

 

She pulls back and looks at me with a pleased but perplexed expression. Katniss likes to eat dinner early, and before the bakery we always came home to make dinner together, usually eating by six. But I never managed to leave the bakery early enough to do that. So dinner got pushed back to 7, then closer to 8 until finally it was Katniss eating alone and me reheating whatever she'd left me, when I got home late at night.

 

“Six,” she echoes. ”Sure, yeah, that'd be perfect.”

 

* * *

 

 

It's almost 4:30 when Thresh pops his head in my office. “Go home, boss,” he says.

 

I don't even look up. “Just got a couple more things to finish here,” I mumble.

 

“Peeta.” His serious tone catches my attention. “Speaking to you not as an employee, but as a friend… Go home now. Don't fuck this up.” I swallow hard; I'm doing it again, letting my work distract me from what's really important. He smiles, and hands me a plastic wrapped ball of pizza dough from the cooler. “Go home, wine and dine your lady. Do it right.”

 

“Thanks, Thresh” I tell him sincerely.

 

* * *

 

 

She knocks on our door, and it's just so strange, so wrong. “Katniss,” I tell her as I pull her into the foyer. “You don't have to knock, this is still your house.” I'm not giving up hope that she'll move back home, eventually. I'll do everything in my power to make it happen. Her key still sits on the entryway table, where she left it. I know she sees it, but she makes a show of not acknowledging it.

 

She does at least hang her own coat up. “What are you cooking?” she asks, delicately sniffing the air.

 

“Pizza,” I grin. Her face lights up. We used to make pizza together, once a week typically, experimenting with topping combinations. It was always a lot of fun. Another thing I miss, desperately. Another thing that fell by the wayside. Another thing I have to be ashamed about. But she just sighs happily and heads to the kitchen to sneak a peek.

 

We eat curled up on the couch together, pizza with tomato and basil, spinach salad and the red wine she likes best. We talk, we laugh, and it's wonderful. I don't even once think about the bakery. Instead I contemplate her silver eyes, watch the way the light plays in her raven hair.

 

“I love your hair down like this,” I admit, reaching out to tuck a strand behind her ear.

 

“I know.” She smiles. We haven't flirted like this in forever. It feels fantastic. I feel like myself for the first time in as long as I can remember.

 

“Can I kiss you?” I don’t mean to say it, but damn do I want it. Her eyes widen slightly, but she nods.

 

I remember our first kiss. We were 13, almost 14. I've always thought that kiss, even though it was unpracticed and a bit sloppy, was the most incredible kiss of my life. Even with the thousands of kisses that followed over the years, that one was the best. It was the first time I understood that my best friend liked me the same way I liked her.

 

But this one is better.

 

There's a hesitation, a tentativeness that hasn't been there in years, but there's also a crackling awareness. I taste her in a way I haven't in far too long; slowly, fully. I swallow every little sound she gives me, and I don't hold back my own noises. I want her to hear what she does to me. The effect she's always had on me.

 

I need her to know that she makes me so hot I can barely breathe.

 

I want to touch her, to pin her underneath me, press us tightly together. I want to make love to her all night long. But I can't. I lost that privilege when I took her love for granted. Doesn’t stop my dick from snapping to attention though, pressing painfully against my jeans.

 

She pulls back before things can go too far. “We should stop,” she says in a pained whisper, eyes tightly closed.

 

“I really don't want to,” I tell her, but I acquiesce. She doesn't move away though, instead she shifts to curl in my arms. And holding her so intimately, pressing kisses to her sweet hair, it's every bit as fantastic as the kissing was.

 

But it's over too soon. “I'd better go,” she tells me, pulling back and climbing off the couch. My stomach falls. As incredible as this evening has been, nothing has really changed.

 

“I'll help you bring the boxes out to your car.”  She nods, and there's a palpable sadness between us.

 

Once her lesson plans are tucked in the backseat of the car I hug her again, tightly, desperately. “Katniss?” It's a plea. “Can I take you out tomorrow? On a date?”

 

“A date?”

 

“Yeah. Yes,” I laugh nervously. “Will you allow it?”

 

“Okay,” she says, and she's smiling. I haven't seen her smile like that in far too long.

 

“I'll pick you up. Five-thirty?”

 

“Really? What about the bakery?” She's chewing on her lip. It's true, I didn't work tonight, and picking her up at 5:30 tomorrow will mean a shorter than typical day for me. But I need to adjust my priorities, and this is a first step.

 

“It'll be fine without me for a few hours,” I tell her, mirroring the words she's told me over and over. When I cup her cheek in my palm she smiles.

 

“Okay. Tomorrow.” We kiss once more. It's hell watching her drive away, again. But at least I have hope. And tomorrow.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated M, kids.

I know virtually nothing about dating. Katniss and I have been together since we were kids, I never needed to woo her. I should have, God knows she deserves to be romanced and pampered, at least once in awhile. But we've always been the stay in and watch movies type. At first because it was cheaper when we were starving students, then because we were saving for the bakery. Recently though it's been laziness. Complacency. My idiocy.

 

Finnick is useless too, all of his suggestions involved whipped cream and sex swings. Not that I'm averse to those things, but I want to show Katniss a good time. Remind her that we can have fun together, when my head isn't up my ass. But Thresh again comes to the rescue.

 

A dinner theatre.

 

It's not far, a 20 minute drive. And I think Katniss will love it. I text her the details, and her reply is positive.

 

* * *

 

 

I arrive early to pick her up; Haymitch answers the door. “Been a long time, boy,” he drawls, leaning against the door frame, staring me down with narrowed eyes. I swallow hard. Katniss isn't the only one I've neglected. “I still have that knife.” His arms are crossed, and he's every bit as intimidating now as he was when I was 15.

 

“Yes, sir,” I mumble. He scoffs.

 

“Drop the ‘sir’ shit, Peeta. Just treat my girl right.”

 

Katniss is waiting for me, wearing a dress, her hair in loose waves around her shoulders. I want to say fuck the theatre and spend the night having my way with her. The deep v of her dress gives me an enticing glimpse of her perfect tits, the burgundy colour makes her skin glow.

 

“You look incredible.” I don't even attempt to disguise the way I'm leering at her, my eyes rake over her every curve.

 

“This old thing?” Her hands skim along her hips; I'm already half hard. When I hug her hello I pull her tightly to me, so she can feel the effect she's having on me. She groans in my ear.

 

“Take that shit out of here,” Haymitch grumbles from his chair in the corner, and we break apart, laughing. I feel like a kid again.

 

Dinner is fun, the production happens all around the audience, so it's a neat experience. We can't chat much, but we hold hands the whole time, communicating in squeezes and thumbs rubbed over knuckles. And when the show is over I'm not ready for the night to end.

 

“Will you come back to the house for a drink?” She's torn, I know she is, but I want so badly to keep this night going.

 

“It's late,” she hedges. “Don't you have to work in the morning?” I don't remember the last time I took a Saturday off. And that's unforgivable. I can't expect to have a relationship, a life, if I'm working 7 days a week. Thresh was right about that.

 

“I'm the boss, I think I can give myself a day off every once in awhile.” I say it flippantly, with false bravado, but she deserves the truth. I take a deep breath before continuing. “I'm trying, Katniss, to figure out how to better balance things. To be a better man.”

 

She kisses me softly. “Let's have that drink then.”

 

We’re so shy with each other, making stilted small talk, glancing at each other and quickly looking away as we sip our beers side by side on the couch. “Fuck,” I laugh, finally. “I haven't been this awkward since middle school.”  She laughs too.

 

“You were never awkward, Peeta, that was my job.”

 

“So not true.” I shift to face her, stroking her cheek with a gentle finger. Her skin is like the softest velvet. “You’re a hot, fierce goddess; I was just your goofy sidekick.” She laughs, and before I can say anything else she takes my bottle and sets it on the table with her own, then perches on my lap. It's all the invitation I need.

 

There's no hesitation this time. I kiss her as if my life depended on it, she responds in kind, biting and licking, pulling my hair almost angrily. My hand snakes into her dress to cup her breast and she pulls back, but only to straddle me, grinding against my erection as I pant and moan and curse. Her dress rides up, my hungry eyes feast on the smooth expanse of firm thigh gripping my hips snugly. When I shrug the shoulders of her dress down to expose her tits, wrapped in black lace, I swear I nearly blow my load.

 

I tease her through the cups, but it's not enough, not for either of us. Her eyes are pleading, her body trembling in that way it does when she's strung tight as a wire.

 

She squeaks when I stand abruptly, her arms flying around my neck, legs hitching around my hips. I cup her ass tightly, keeping her pressed to me even as I carry her up the stairs.

 

Time seems to slow as I lay her back on our bed, silent except for our mingled panting. My desperate need, the tension in my balls, it recedes as I hover over her, replaced by an all-encompassing desire to make her sing. To erase the intense vulnerability I can see in her silver eyes.

 

I take my time undressing her, peeling the layers away reverently, worshipping every inch of her skin. Katniss is beautiful, so much lovelier than she even knows. My fingers itch to commit this moment to paper, to capture the brush of black lashes on flushed cheeks, the sensuous curve of hip bone, the luscious swell of breasts that rise and fall with each shuddering breath.

 

I'm a starving man and she is my banquet. I kneel before her in penance and murmur my confessions into her silky flesh. She whimpers absolution into the dim as she trembles and pulses against my mouth.

 

I make her fall apart twice before finally sinking into her waiting heat. Her hiss as we’re joined is a chastisement, reminding me how very, very long it's been. As I move in her I say all of the things I should have been telling her all along; that she's beautiful, sexy, amazing. That I want her every minute of every day. That I love her.

 

That I'm sorry.

 

And after, as we lie curled together, pressed tightly head to toe, I ask her to stay, if only for tonight.

 

* * *

 

 

For the first time since she left, I sleep all night through. Waking up with her in my arms, her hair spilling across the pillows, her firm ass cradling my morning wood, I feel on top of the world. Far too often over the past year I've woken up this way and immediately climbed out of bed to shower or call into the bakery.

 

How many times have I failed to appreciate the simple pleasure of laying warm and naked with the woman I love?

 

Katniss sleeps another 40 minutes or so while I trace designs on the soft skin of her hipbone, cocooned in contentment. It'd be a lie to say that I’m not tempted to grab my phone and check in with the bakery, but I resist, and for once try to just live in the moment.

 

She squirms and mewls as she wakes up, I'd forgotten how cute it is. But she stiffens as she becomes aware of our positions and my heart cracks with the knowledge that she's accustomed to waking up alone. Leaving didn't change that for her, she's been waking up alone for a year, at least. But not today.

 

She rolls over in my arms. “Good morning, my love,” I whisper in the sacred hush, and she smiles. I trace the contours of her beautiful face, strong brows over sharp cheekbones, soft lips and delicate chin. She is exquisite. Of all the things I've failed to give her, time is the most important. So I force myself not to rush. But when her tongue skates out to tease my roving finger, my cock twitches back to life. And when she grips me firmly my restraint is gone.

 

After, side by side, the sweat cooling on our skin, I grin at her. “Pancakes?” Her musical laughter sounds like relief.

 

“I'd like that.”

 

I pull on a pair of boxers and head downstairs while she cleans up. I do check my phone, but just quickly, before sliding it in the docking station in the kitchen, filling the room with music.

 

Ed Sheeran is keeping me company while I measure out ingredients when a giggle rings behind me. I smirk and turn, ready to act affronted. I know she's laughing at my dance moves. But she's leaning against the doorframe, wearing only my pale blue button down shirt. My dick twitches and stiffens, again, even though it's been no more than 45 minutes since the last time.

 

“Fuck, you're sexy,” I growl, advancing on her. She shrugs, but her eyes gleam.

 

“I don't have any clothes here,” she murmurs and I tense a little, but pull her into my arms, shielding my face in her hair. As incredible as she looks in nothing but my shirt the reminder that we are still broken hurts. I won't let it spoil our morning though.

 

My hands slide down from her waist to cup her ass and I groan at the realization that my shirt is truly the only thing she's wearing. I squeeze her bare cheeks, roughly thrusting against her as she sucks on the pulse point in my throat, reducing me to a quivering mess. “Mmmm Katniss,” I moan. “We're never gonna eat if you keep distracting me like this.”  Not that I would mind skipping breakfast at this point. There are much tastier things here to enjoy than pancakes.

 

But she laughs and pushes me away, sauntering into the kitchen, the sway of her hips hypnotic.

 

It's like old times, puttering around the kitchen together. She makes tea while I slice fruit and whisk batter, singing along with the playlist on my phone. Then the music cuts off as the ringtone I've assigned the bakery shatters our domestic tranquillity.

 

I stiffen, but don't reach for it, keeping my concentration on the griddle I'm preheating. “Peeta? Shouldn't you answer that?”  I shrug, and the ringing stops.

 

“If it's really important he’ll call back.”

 

When it starts ringing again I know I have no choice. I can barely look at Katniss when I pull the phone off the cradle, and face the wall as I speak. Dalton is close to frantic, though completely apologetic. He has an emergency at home and has to leave, the day's baking not even half done and only 30 minutes before my part timers are due in to open at 8.

 

“No, it's fine, Dalton. I understand.” I reach over to snap off the burner and huff out a frustrated breath; behind me Katniss makes a similar sound. “Just make sure the ovens are off and lock up behind you. No, don't bother with the alarm, I won't be that long.”

 

Katniss is gone when I disconnect the call. Of course this would happen, right when we’re reconnecting, right when I’m trying to show her that she’s more important than the business, that’s when an issue would come up that demands my immediate attention.  

 

I stare at the phone for a few long moments. Then I hit dial.


	6. Chapter 6

_I stare at the phone for a few moments. Then I hit dial._

 

“Thresh? I need your help.”

 

Though he's my manager, and this kind of staffing issue is part of his job, I've always micromanaged everything. So when I tell him what's happening at the bakery and, reluctantly, ask him if he’ll deal with it he's stunned into silence. “Thresh? Can you help me out?”

 

“Yeah, of course, boss.” Thresh has been with me for over a year and I've never really let him do his job in all that time. But I'm realizing that my inability to let my employees to do their jobs without me hovering has hurt them too. Thresh is a fine, competent manager. He needs to know that I trust him.

 

“Is, uh, is Katniss with you?” I chuckle; I guess I'm pretty transparent.

 

“Yeah, she is,” I admit.

 

“You're doing the right thing, Peeta,” he says quietly, and I nod, though he can't see it.

 

“I'll check in with you later,” I tell him, and he laughs.

 

“Don't you dare.”

 

The griddle has just come back up to temperature when she reappears in the kitchen doorway, wearing her dress and clutching her handbag. Her body language is stiff, upset, but she looks bewildered to see me still standing in my boxers. “You're not ready?” is all she gets out.

 

“As absolutely smoking hot as you look in that dress, love, I have every intention of hoisting you onto the counter and having you for dessert, so unless you want to ruin that pretty scrap of fabric you should probably take it off.”

 

“The bakery?”

 

“Thresh has it covered.” I set down the spatula and walk over to her, taking her handbag and setting it on the table.

 

“But,” she tries, and I stop her with a kiss.

 

“We pay him pretty well to take care of these things, Katniss. We have to trust him.” By the way her eyes soften I know she understands that I'm mostly trying to convince myself.

 

“Are you sure, Peeta,” she whispers. I'm not, not completely anyway. But I nod. It's a big step for me, entrusting the bakery to someone else, especially when I know there’s a potential crisis looming. But it's absolutely crucial if I'm ever going to find that balance.

 

We feed each other bites of pancake as she sits on my lap, wearing only her bra and panties, which I rid her of when I toss her on the table for my second course. Then we have a long shower together, something we haven’t done since college. I love the intimacy of it, hot, wet bodies pressed together in the small space, washing her hair for her, cradling her in a towel, it’s erotic but also so sensual. Again and again I’m reminded that it’s the simplest of pleasures I’ve deprived us of. Both of us.

 

I find a pair of her sweatpants tucked in amongst my own, and she wears one of my t-shirts. We go for a long walk through the neighbourhood, hand in hand, talking about everything and nothing.

 

I drive her back to Haymitch’s house in the early afternoon. It hurts to do so, really hurts, because it's been pretty much the best 24 hours of my life. But I understand when she tells me that we need more time. I mean, it took close to a year for me to screw everything up. I can't expect to right it in a day.

 

Standing on his sagging porch though, it's all I can do not to beg her to just grab her things and come home. “When can I see you again?” I ask instead.

 

She smiles; her smiles have been freer the past two days, I've noticed. “Would you like to have Sunday dinner with me and Haymitch?”

 

I mean, I'd rather spend another day in bed together, but dinner with Haymitch will do.

 

I do phone Thresh after I leave, but I resist the urge to drop in, and I think that's progress.

 

A Saturday evening alone. It's so strange, I feel so disconcerted, so untethered. I tidy the house a bit - something I haven’t done much of in a long while either, honestly, do some laundry, throw together a lasagna that's far too large for one.

 

And eventually I wander into the second bedroom. I had grand plans to turn it into a studio, but like so many other things, that fell by the wayside. My easel is in here though, set up by the window, beside the futon that acts as bed for overnight guests.

 

There are blank canvasses in the closet, and my box of acrylic paints, miraculously not dried out.

 

I haven't painted anything since college, but I guess I haven't forgotten how. I lose myself in the rhythmic swish of my brush, the lines that sweep and curl and converge in my mind, the shifting of light and shadow and colour. The hours slide by as my brushes coax visions to life.

 

* * *

 

 

Sunday morning I wake to a text. ‘ _Dalton still out. I have it covered. DON’T WORRY’._ I can't help but smile, Thresh is clearly relishing this opportunity to do his job without my interference. And I do trust him, I really do.

 

I will go into the bakery today anyway, but I'll wait until after opening. So I double knot my long-ignored running shoes and head out into the spring morning. My body certainly notices that it's been far too long since I've exercised, after two miles my stomach is churning, my lungs are burning and my legs are screaming. But my mind feels clearer than it has in a long time.

 

Thom, my weekday baker, is holding fort in the bakery’s kitchen when I get there, music cranked, though he rushes to lower the volume when I show up. "Sorry ‘bout that, boss,” he laughs and I slug him in the shoulder.

 

“You know how I feel about the ‘boss’ shit, Thom.” We’ve been friends since high school, he's the first person I hired when the bakery took off. “Is Delly going to kill me for having you in here on a weekend?” He laughs.

 

“Naw, she was looking forward to sleeping in without me snoring away next to her,” he grins. Thom and Delly married right out of high school, and he still lights up like a Christmas tree when he talks about her. “She's gotta sleep in as much as she can now,” he continues. “Because we won't be getting much sleep starting about six months from now.”

 

His grin widens as I slowly clue in to what he's saying. “Oh my God, Thom, really? Dell’s pregnant?” His laughter, loud and boisterous, rings through the kitchen and I grip him in a tight hug. “I am so fucking happy for you, man!”

 

There’s probably a huge stack of work waiting for me in the office, but for once I ignore it and I spend the morning in the kitchen, chatting with Thom, helping get the day’s wares made. Baking. The morning flies by, like they all do, but when Thom takes off his apron and tells me it’s time for lunch I feel energized and excited instead of deflated.

 

He drags me to the diner down the street, and over burgers and greasy fries we talk about life and, eventually, we talk about Katniss. Thom knows what’s happened, everyone does, I haven’t made any secret of it and news travels in a town like this. He’s sympathetic, but like Thresh he’s insistent that the separation is temporary, that we will fix things.

 

It’s when he tells me, offhandedly, a throw away statement, really, that he thought Katniss and I would be married by now that I see what everyone else has seen all along. How screwed up my priorities have been.

 

I don’t go back to the bakery after lunch. A quick stop at the farmer’s market for rhubarb and a bouquet of cut flowers - larkspur and daisies - and I head, instead, home. And while I bake rhubarb pie, which is Haymitch’s favourite, I call my brother.

 

I'm the youngest of three boys, my brothers are 5 and 7 years older. We weren't close growing up, but we've grown together some since my mother died. She drove a wedge between us kids after my father’s death, whether accidentally or by design I’ll never know. She sold the business, took up with the man who would become my stepfather, and moved us to Panem, all within a couple of months of Dad’s passing. Brann and Rye were already in high school, they reacted to the upheaval by acting out in every way imaginable. I was just a little boy, my dad was gone, my brothers were like strangers and my mother had no time for any of us. I tried to act as a peacekeeper between all of them, tried to hold what family I had left together, which just made the tension between us worse.

 

Only once I was in high school and they were both away at college did things settle down. And only after mother’s death did the three of us begin to rebuild our relationship.

 

Brann picks up on the first ring and we chat for awhile about sports and his consulting business. But it's not long before he asks me what's going on. I haven't called just to chat since… well ever, probably. “I need to know about Dad,” I admit. “How… how did he manage to balance the bakery and all of us?” Silence stretches down the line, then he scoffs in disbelief.

 

“How?” he repeats, and then chuckles, an unpleasant sound. “Fuck, I forget sometimes just how young you were then. He didn't, Peet. Not for most of my life anyway.” His response, and the anger under his words, floors me. All of my best memories of my father involve the bakery, but it seems Brann doesn't share them. He takes my stunned silence as an invitation to continue.

 

“I really never saw Dad when I was little. He was, fuck, he was just never around. He owned a bakery but all of my birthday cakes came from the grocery store.”

 

“I don't understand,” I say quietly, and Brann sighs.

 

“I was twelve, I think. You hadn't even turned five. They always fought, Mom and Dad, but it was so much worse then. Screaming, throwing things, and always in the middle of the night. Do you remember Granny Maitland?” I nod, though he can’t see me. My mother’s mother, she died when I was maybe 6. “Do you remember living with her?”

 

I almost drop the phone. No, I most certainly don't remember living with my grandmother! At my disbelieving grunt Brann continues. “We did, for a month maybe, when I was twelve. Mom walked out on Dad, took us with her. Said he couldn't see us unless he got his act together. I figured we'd never see him again, since he hardly noticed us before.”

 

“What… what happened then?”  My voice is so small. I’ve worshipped my dad for as long as I can remember, built my life modelled on what I know of his.  Apparently in more ways than I’ve realized.

 

Brann doesn’t know many of the details but obviously we all moved back home, and Dad cut his work drastically. And the way he talks about that time in our lives, the way he talks about our father at all, makes me realize the damage was deep and never fully resolved.

 

I remember Dad being home when I got home from school most days, and I know when he’d take me to the bakery on Saturday mornings to work with him in the kitchen we never stayed more than a few hours. I’m only now realizing that means he must have delegated the daily work much more efficiently than I do.

 

How did I ever think I could do this all myself?

 

I wish I could ask him how he did it. How he changed, how he managed. And as I drive to Haymitch’s house I wonder: was Dad’s heart attack, far, far too young, caused by his workaholism? It’s a sobering thought.

 

Katniss answers the door, and her beautiful silver eyes light up when I give her the flowers. She’s just so easy to please, expects so little, and still I completely failed her. How could I ever have taken her for granted? She kisses me, the barest flutter of soft lips, and I can’t help but chase her when she pulls back. But she merely grins, and steps inside.

 

We eat, we play cards. Haymitch drinks too much. Prim joins us by Skype briefly from Seattle, where she's in medical school. It's all so normal. Except for the skyping, it's exactly how we used to spend Sundays, long ago.

 

And like those Sundays long ago, Haymitch passes out early.

 

I remember the giggling make out sessions we used to have back then, sneaking off to her bedroom, endlessly shushing each other so that we wouldn’t wake Haymitch. Prim was so good about making herself scarce too, she’s always been our staunchest supporter, our biggest cheerleader. I can’t remember when I stopped texting her for advice.

 

Katniss is thinking about those days too, I can see it in her mercury eyes, the glint of mischief. She stands without a word, and pulls me out of the room and down the hall.

 

Her bedroom is just as she left it. The faded forest green comforter. The horse posters. The bulletin board covered with pictures of our younger selves; smiling, laughing. Happy. But the woman who pulls me onto the bed is not the girl who used to live here. And as I cover her lithe body with my own all I can think is if she'll take me back I want desperately to make her my wife. I want always.

 

\---

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

When I wander into the bakery at a quarter past nine in the morning Thresh actually laughs. I hadn't meant to sleep over at Haymitch’s house, but Katniss, barely coherent after I'd made her come twice, asked me to stay. So I stayed, of course I stayed! And we didn't wake up until her alarm went off, hours later than the one I use at home. But I didn't freak out or get upset, like I might have before. Instead, I made breakfast while she got ready for work. I made enough for Haymitch too; he pretended to disapprove of my staying over, but I caught him smiling more than once.

 

I'm at the bakery, but not hiding in my office. I spent some time in the kitchen with Thom when I first arrived, and now I’m out front, helping with the lunch rush.  Lavinia, one of my full timers, is skittish as a colt having me here; I guess I just haven’t spent enough time interacting with the staff as people for them to be confident I’m not here to critique their performance… or worse. I try to put her at ease, try to explain that I just miss seeing my customers. There are only a few I even recognize now. That’s not the ‘mom-and-pop’ feeling I wanted for my bakery, not at all.  Lavinia is amazing, friendly, a complete pro. But my own customers don’t know me.

 

After lunch I take two of the leftover sandwiches from the display case and head to my car.

 

Haymitch’s eyebrows shoot up when he sees me standing on his porch again. “Sweetheart’s not here, boy.”

 

“I know, old man. I came to talk to you, if you have time.” He shrugs, but ushers me inside.

 

Haymitch was a newspaper man, and while he is retired now he's still an ardent consumer of media. The dining room table is covered with newspapers, his laptop perched in the mess. He shoves everything to the side and waves at a chair. “If you’re here to ask for her hand in marriage you’d be better off trying to convince her first,” he mumbles, finally dropping into a chair across from me with a huff. I just shake my head.

 

“You know I want to marry Katniss, but that’s not what I’m here for today.” He nods solemnly, but when I pull a turkey sandwich on light rye from my bag and drop it in front of him he laughs.

 

“Knew you were still in there somewhere, kid,” he says, unwrapping the sandwich deftly and shoving half of it in his mouth. I pick at my own sandwich while I try to gather my thoughts.  My dad’s been gone since I was a kid, my mom’s second marriage lasted only a year, and I’m not close to my brothers. Haymitch is pretty much my only male role model, not quite a father figure, but maybe a mentor of sorts.  

 

“I need your advice,” I tell him.  He scoffs.

 

“Kid, I am the last person you should ask for relationship advice, there’s a reason I’ve never been married.” I know precious little about Haymitch’s younger years, but I do know there hasn’t been any women in his life since his sister died and left him two orphaned girls to care for. But that’s not what I’m here for anyway.

 

“Not relationship advice, Haymitch. Life advice. I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”  There’s no point beating around the bush with Haymitch. He’s not one for subtlety or poetry anyway.  He’s not even much for speaking, but I don’t know that I have any other alternative.

 

He scratches the scruff on his chin, then turns abruptly, leaning precariously towards the sideboard, and yet somehow managing to grab a bottle of whisky and two glasses without dropping anything. Agile for a 60-something year old functioning alcoholic. I try to wave him off as he pours me a glass, it’s not even 2 in the afternoon, but he scowls.  “If we’re going to have this conversation I’m gonna need it.  And if you really want to hear what I have to say, you’re gonna need one too.” I take the glass without any further protest.

 

I swirl the amber liquid around in my glass while Haymitch finishes most of his in a single gulp and pours a second. Then he simply stares, in that bordering on creepy way he has of looking straight through you. Katniss has the same piercing stare.

 

“You’re a good man, Peeta.” I frown at him.

 

“Not exactly the lecture I was expecting, old man,” I say, and take a tentative sip of the whisky.  It’s smooth and smoky, the good stuff. But I still don’t care for it. He snickers.

 

“You expecting me to yell at you, maybe ease your guilty conscience a little, boy? Ain’t gonna happen.” I want to protest, but deep inside I know he’s right.  I do want him to yell at me, insult me, tell me what a terrible person I am. The guilt is eating me alive. He nods when he sees that realization on my face.  

 

We drink in silence for a few more minutes before he continues.  “You’re focused and driven, Peeta, you always have been, even when you were a kid. I’ve always liked that about you. You know what you want and you go after it. That’s why your business is so successful.” He laughs suddenly. “That’s how you got the girl in the first place.” Yeah, I guess it is.  

 

I met Katniss when I was 9 years old, new to town, new to school, half-orphaned and afraid. She approached me on the school yard that first day, told me that she liked my hair and we should be friends. We were inseparable after that. And when, 2 years later, she lost both of her parents to a car accident, I was there to help her pick up the pieces. Our shared pain deepened our bond.

 

By the time we were 13 I knew I wanted more. But she took some convincing. I was pretty relentless in pursuing her, with all of the swagger and finesse my teenaged self could muster. It took more than a year and a half before she agreed to go steady. Not because she didn't want me. She eventually confessed it was that she didn't want to risk ruining our friendship.

 

I promised I'd stay with her always.

 

Haymitch belches, and it snaps me out of my reverie. “How many hours do you work a week, kid?” I shrug.

 

“I've cut back some since Katniss left,” I mumble, though I know full well that's not what he's asking. He grunts, and I can't help but feel defensive. I’m trying, I’m changing, Katniss has noticed that at least. “I took Saturday off.”

 

“Yeah? What about Sunday?”

 

“I worked a couple of hours yesterday morning.” Four, in fact, and in the kitchen. I'm pretty proud of that. I'm actually starting to feel a bit smug, I have made real changes. So I begin to tally the rest of the week for him. “And I left early both Thursday and Friday….” I trail off, I did leave much earlier than usual, hours earlier in fact. But Thursday I left only because Thresh insisted, and I'd been there 11 hours at that point. Friday I cut it so close that I only barely had time to shower before picking Katniss up, hadn't even left myself enough time to get her the flowers I'd intended. The rest of the week… I worked 14 or 15 hours each day.

 

My ‘light week’ was close to 70 hours physically at the bakery, and who knows how many more checking in or working just a little from home or, fuck, just thinking about the place. I take another swallow of the whisky, the burn does nothing to minimize my self-loathing. No wonder Katniss keeps insisting we need more time, if this is what ‘fixing things’ looks like from her perspective.

 

Haymitch doesn’t offer many suggestions, but on an old yellow notepad he makes lists. We sketch out my priorities. My dreams. My vision for the future.  And, most disgustingly, how I’ve spent my time over the past few months. The column of people and things that are the most important to me is overwhelmingly followed by zeros.  I’ve spent no time with my friends. No time taking care of myself. No time making a home.  And as I look at the insane number of hours I’ve spent on business related activities I start to wonder how Katniss filled those hours. Those long, endless hours, days, weeks.  

 

I’ve been annoyed with the slow pace of our reconciliation, even a little angry maybe. But seeing the past few months laid out like this, in black and yellow, and knowing that it’s been this way probably a year? That she’s talking to me at all now seems miraculous.

 

After two hours I’m exhausted, nauseous, heartsick. But I thank Haymitch genuinely. And he pats my shoulder, as close to a parental gesture as he gets. “Listen, Kid,” he says with a sigh. “It’s not completely you.  Sweetheart should have said something long ago, before it got to this.” I nod.

 

“She did though. I just wasn’t listening.” She’s never been the yelling type, and I know that.  She internalizes. I just wasn’t paying enough attention. In retrospect, the signs have been there all along. But I was blind.

 

“Next time maybe she should say it with my old bow and arrows,” he jokes. But then he sobers immediately. “I also think you should call Chaff. He can help you with some of that.”  

 

I drive directly home after my chat with Haymitch. I don’t even call Thresh to check in. Instead I climb the stairs to my bedroom and stand in front of the mirrored closet door. The face that looks back at me is barely recognizable as my own. The dark circles under my eyes are so deep they look like bruises and my cheeks look gaunt, hollow. Even my skin has a sickly yellow cast. Like I’m rotting inside, dying of neglect. I look far older than my not quite 28 years. Then I pull off my shirt.

 

I was athletic all through school; running, wrestling, pick up games of football. But I haven’t exercised for health or pleasure in so long.  A single 2 mile run can’t make up for the neglect, my body is soft, the musculature eroded. I look weak. Unappealing. Broken. I'm nothing but a parody of the man I want to be. The man I've been pretending to be for so long. I'm tempted to blame losing Katniss for it, and that's true in part. But the unfamiliar body that looks back at me screams that it's so much more than that.  

 

I call Katniss every evening, it’s a commitment I made when she first started talking to me again. But tonight I can barely manage to dial my phone, and when she answers I have no words. She picks up on my mood immediately, and when she offers to come to me I can only make a little choking noise of relief.

 

She finds me curled on the bed, still shirtless and clutching Haymitch’s yellow notepad. She doesn’t even ask what’s wrong, she simply climbs into bed with me and holds me as I fall apart.

 

It takes more than an hour for the storm to abate. I've been holding things so tightly in check for so long, unwilling to cede control, unwilling to fail. But it's an illusion, it’s not fucking real. And I can’t lie to myself anymore.

 

Katniss heats up noodle soup for us, and though I’m not hungry I finish the whole bowl as she watches eagle-eyed and with a line between her brows. Only then does she ask me what’s wrong. And though words are usually my thing, I find I can only apologize over and over while she hushes me.

 

I have no idea where the time goes, but it’s dark when she stands to leave, and I feel empty. I want to beg her to stay, forever. But I can't. I don't deserve her. She was right, she deserves someone with his shit together. Instead I follow her to the door.  “Are you going to be okay,” she asks, wrapping her arms around my neck.

 

“No.” Her arms tighten around me, and we stand in the doorway, silent and trembling. When she pulls back, her eyes are soft and understanding.

 

“Peeta,” she says, “I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.  Okay? If… if you want to talk, or if you need help. You don’t have to do everything. There are so many people who love you. We… we all want to help.”

 

* * *

 

 

My black mood stretches into the morning, the cloud of self-loathing paints my every interaction. At just past ten Thresh lets himself into my office and shuts the door firmly behind him. “What's going on?”

 

“Nothing,” I grumble.

 

“Bullshit,” he says and I glare at him, but he’s not giving in, and frankly I suck at glaring anyway.

 

“What am I doing, Thresh?”  I don’t mean to sound so sad, so vulnerable. But there it is. I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.

 

“What happened, man?  Is this about Katniss? I thought things were going good?” He comes around to perch on the side of my desk. In answer I push the yellow notepad into his hands. The pages are curling at the edges now, testament to the iron grip I’ve kept on it.

 

He reads in silence while I continue my internal litany, I’m not good enough, I’ll never be good enough. But Thresh doesn’t hear it. “I don’t think it’s as bad as you seem to believe, Peet,” he says, and I roll my eyes. But he just laughs at me, dragging a chair over to sit beside me.

 

I remember when we interviewed Thresh, Katniss and I together.  She was still involved in the day to day back then, and she’d been impressed with the gentle giant of a man who hid a sharp mind behind his calm, affable exterior. And as I watch him commandeer my computer, pulling up spreadsheets with practiced ease I’m reminded how much we both trusted him, right off the bat. How much Katniss was looking forward to Thresh taking over most of the operations side of the bakery, so that we would have the life we wanted, together.

 

I wish I could pinpoint when it changed. When we went from making all of the bakery decisions together, always with a view to our future, to the strange completely separate lives we found ourselves living when she left me.

 

Thresh manipulates some numbers to quickly demonstrate how only a few minor changes to the bakery’s hours of operation and staffing could potentially result in a massive change to my own workload. Assuming, of course, I can buy into the plan.

 

“You’d need to hire a bookkeeper,” he insists. “You spend so much time on the finances, Peet, and no offense, but it’s not even your strong suit.” I look up at him with my eyebrows drawn together in annoyance but he simply shrugs.  “It’s true,” is all he says. I know he’s right; when I met with the accountant to file my taxes she’d grumbled over and over about the state of my books. Doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

 

His other suggestions include cross-training a couple of the part timers to do the morning baking, and closing early on Sundays, traditionally our slow time. He makes everything sound so simple. But when he looks at me expectantly I balk.

 

“I need to talk to Katniss about it first,” I tell him, and the surprise written across his face is obvious.

 

“Okay, yeah,” he says after a beat. “That’s a good idea. After all, it’s half her bakery too, right?”

 

_Right?_

 

And it’s almost ridiculous how clearly I can see it now.

 

* * *

 

 

My improved mood doesn’t go unnoticed by Katniss when we chat on the phone, though she doesn’t pry. She instead regales me with stories about her students projects and experiments for the upcoming science fair, and by the time she finishes we’re both laughing like loons. And my mood gets even better when she agrees to another date, tomorrow night.

 

* * *

 

 

I’m nervous when I pick her up, but not because I’m worried about the date. We’re going out for dinner, then I’m going to take her bowling. I already know she’ll enjoy that.

 

I’m worried about what I want to ask her, after.

 

She greets me with a kiss, but her smile falters a little as she strokes the purple circles under my eyes with her thumbs. “You’re still not sleeping,” she says sadly. I shrug.

 

“I’ll be okay,” I tell her. She knows I sleep like crap without her; I’m not going to use that to guilt her into coming home.

 

We have a truly great evening together. She wipes the floor with my ass at bowling. Katniss has always been phenomenal at sports and games requiring aim, and though she’s little, she’s strong. Besides, I was terribly distracted by the sight of her firm ass encased in snug jeans. Bowling, I’m convinced, was invented strictly for allowing people to stare uninhibited at their opponent’s posteriors.  

 

She teasingly gloats about her win the whole drive home; my grin is so wide my cheeks hurt. I have missed her so much. Seeing her like this, happy, laughing, it’s balm to my soul. It gives me hope. We can be happy again. We can find our way back.

 

I pull into Haymitch’s driveway and cut the engine. She turns to me with a glint of mischief in her eyes, I can practically read her mind. We haven’t made out in a car in a long time. But first things first. I take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

 

The envelope I pull from my jacket pocket confuses her. “What’s this,” she asks, flipping the plain white rectangle in her hands.

 

“It’s for your birthday,” I tell her softly. “Open it.”

 

“Won’t… won’t I see you on my birthday?” she whispers, and it’s so hesitant. I reach out right away, pulling her into a fierce hug in the cramped front seat.

 

“Yes, oh God Katniss, I hope so, if you want me. I'll be with you every single day that you'll allow, always. Just, just open it. You’ll understand.”

 

She tears open the envelope and stares at the glossy information package in confusion.

 

Her birthday is just over a week away, and I know I’m taking a risk, making these plans so last minute, and without talking to her first. I hold my breath.

 

“You booked a cabin?” Her eyes search mine, back and forth, as if she’s looking for something.

 

“Yes. I, uh. I was hoping, well. I was hoping we could go together.”  The cabin is in the mountains, about two hours away, on a remote lake. Katniss and I have never taken a vacation together, not even for spring break in college. And while two nights in a rustic cabin is hardly jetsetting, Katniss doesn’t seem to mind. Her beautiful silver eyes light up.

 

“Really, Peeta?” I nod again, and she laughs, shifting on the seat to press her lips to mine.

 

“We can leave that Friday, as soon as you’re done with classes,” I mumble between kisses. “There’s even a little boat, we can go fishing.” Katniss loves fishing and hunting. It’s something Haymitch shared with her growing up, and her father before that. “There are no neighbours there,” I continue. And then the biggest admission. “And no cell reception.”

 

She pulls back, staring at me wide-eyed. I grin. “No distractions.”

 

She reaches for me again, her joy is palpable, matching my own. I manage to shuffle over the emergency break and tip Katniss’s chair backwards. Dry humping in the front seat of a 15 year old Civic in my girlfriend’s uncle’s driveway. I’m not sure that’s what I expected to be doing at 27.

 

But it’s so damned good.

 

By the time she climbs out of the car; cheeks flushed, hair wild, jeans unbuttoned, blouse in disarray, the windows are so fogged I can’t even drive.


	8. Chapter 8

The past few days have been obscenely busy, even for me and especially now that I'm more aware of the time I spend here. It’s unavoidable this time though.

 

But they haven't been without bright spots. Katniss and I had another date night, mini golfing. She kicked my ass, as usual. I dragged her behind the windmill on the 17th hole, teasing and tormenting her until she came to a whimpering, shuddering climax with the oblivious attendant only 20 feet away. Thankfully he was too fixated on his phone to hear the filth I whispered in her ear.

 

And yesterday, I surprised her by bringing lunch to her at the school. We sat in her quiet classroom, chatting about nothing, sharing goat cheese and apple paninis. She smiled, she laughed, she walked me to my car... and then she murmured things in my ear that had me adjusting myself the entire drive back to the bakery.

 

I don’t know if I’ve ever in my life jacked off as much as I have in the past week or so. It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, that spending time with Katniss has amped up my libido. She’s always had that effect on me. But it’s shocking to realize just how low it was before.

 

* * *

 

 

I’ve already turned the sign to closed when she arrives at the bakery, and confusion is clearly written on her face. It’s only just after 5, and a Wednesday; normally I’d stay open until 8.

 

I lead her back to my office, our fingers loosely entwined. She glances at my desk and I can almost read her mind; she’s remembering one of the last times we were all alone in here with the bakery closed.

 

It was the evening we interviewed Thresh, here, after hours. The bakery had been open about nine months at that point; we were both exhausted, running on empty. I’d finally relented to her suggestion that we hire someone to manage the shop. As soon as we met him we could both tell he was the one, and we were elated. Once I’d seen him out, Katniss and I made love on this very desk, frantically, fuelled by the promise that things were going to change, were going to get better.  We’d been so full of hope, so excited for our future.

 

Why didn't I see it then? Why didn’t I see that the spiral had already begun? What I wouldn’t give to go back, to fix everything before it got to this point.  

 

Instead, I kiss her fingers and guide her to a chair, taking the one beside her rather than my regular chair across the desk. I don’t want to face each other, like adversaries. I need her to see that we’re on the same team, that we want the same things.  

 

She watches with curiosity as I open the laptop, spread stacks of papers in front of her. And for 40 minutes I go through the bakery changes Thresh suggested, the restructuring model I’ve been hashing out with an auditor all week, hour upon hour. It’ll mean less profit for the bakery as I both reduce opening hours and increase staff. But I need her to see how it’ll also result in me working something that resembles a normal work week. How it opens the door to me having a life outside of this place. A life with her, the kind of life we’ve dreamed of.

 

She listens attentively and thoughtfully, offers suggestions and opinions when I ask, remains engaged even when I wander into tangents. But the confusion never leaves her silver eyes. It’s only when I show her the bakery’s financial statements for the last two quarters that she finally stops me.

 

“Why are you showing me all of this, Peeta? I mean, I’m happy to help, you know that, but…” the buzzer from the bakery’s delivery door rings, cutting her off, and I leap to my feet.

 

“Hold that thought, love,” I tell her as I wander back through the kitchen.

 

Chaff Lewis greets me with a firm handshake and a booming laugh.  Chaff is a lawyer, and one of Haymitch’s closest friends. He helped us with all of the legalese when we started down the path to opening the bakery, and now I’ve asked him here to fix the things I didn’t do right at that time.

 

He lifts Katniss right out of her chair when he sees her, kissing her cheek with a loud smack that makes her grimace, but she laughs.

 

I direct Chaff to my chair and retake my seat beside Katniss. She's chewing on her bottom lip as Chaff pulls a huge pile of papers out of his briefcase. I resist the urge to sigh; I know there are hundreds of dollars of fees attached to every quarter inch of that stack. Chaff’s a good man, I trust him, but he’s not cheap. Katniss fidgets beside me. “I should probably go,” she mumbles. Chaff is the one who replies.

 

“Half of these are for your signature, Miss Everdeen,” he teases and from the corner of my eye I can see her scowl.

 

“Don't call me that, Uncle Chaff,” she groans. “What's going on here?”

 

“Restructuring, darlin’,” he grins.

 

Chaff goes through the changes in detail with Katniss, I barely listen. He and I have already gone over everything; when I told him I wanted Katniss to have a more formal legal stake in the business he drafted a partnership agreement that will protect both of us, jointly and individually. It's how we should have set things up originally, but I had my head so far up my ass that it never occurred to me that we might at some point not be a single entity.

 

It took her walking away, leaving everything we’d built together behind, to make me see it.

 

She listens to him, asking intelligent questions. Outwardly she is calm and relaxed. But I know her tells. She's seething. Tension radiates off her in waves, though I don't completely understand why. I glance over a few times, but she won't look at me, keeping her gaze fixed on Chaff or the papers he sets in front of her.

 

It doesn't take long until I'm letting Chaff out the back. He claps me on the shoulder. “You're doing the right thing, Peeta,” he says gently, stepping out of lawyer mode. I just nod. “She'll come around,” he promises. Guess he noticed her irritation too.

 

When I return she's dropped any semblance of calm. “What the hell was that?”

 

“Exactly what it sounded like. This company is half yours, Katniss. I want to protect you...” she cuts me off.

 

“No! This isn't protection,” she spits. “You're not protecting me. You're trying to manipulate me!”

 

“No,” I start, but she doesn’t let me continue.

 

“This is your bakery, Peeta, not mine, I have nothing to do with it.”

 

“Katniss,” I say as evenly as I can, like talking down a spooked horse. “You put half the money into this place, half the work, sacrificed more than I even realized. It’s half yours, I wanted to make sure that was clear.”

 

“You think you can use this place to… to force me to be with you?  So we’ll be stuck together, forever, whether I want that or not?”

 

Her words are like a knife through my heart. I know Katniss, I’ve known her since we were children, I knew she’d be annoyed about me formalizing the bakery’s ownership, knew she’d be upset. That’s just who she is. But I never thought she’d see it as me trying to bully her into staying with me. The idea that she would have to be coerced into being together makes me feel sick.

 

She’s trembling, her hands are in fists, lips so tightly pinched they’re almost white. I can only shake my head, I can’t trust my words. Instead, I hand her one last document. She stares at my outstretched hand long enough that I’m certain she’ll deny even this, but finally she takes the papers, snatching them from me with a huff.

 

I watch her as she skims the words. “It’s a business appraisal,” I tell her. “I only had time to get one done, but I’ll gladly get a couple of others, if you want.”  Swallowing the bile that sears my throat, I force myself to push out the words. “Katniss, I… I would never force you to stay with me… in any capacity. If… if you want nothing more to do with the bakery.” I have to stop, have to take another deep breath to hold the tears at bay. “If you want nothing more to do with me… then I’ll buy you out. You can walk away. There’ll be enough money to start over, to do what you want to do...” I’ve dropped my eyes, and am staring in the general direction of her shoes, though all I see is a blurred swirl of colour.

 

The silence stretches between us. Finally I can take it no longer, and chance a glance at her face.

 

She looks heartbroken.

 

“Is that what you want, Peeta?” she whispers.

 

“No!” I almost shout in my haste to make her understand. “No,” I continue, more quietly. “Katniss I…” I step towards her, but she backs away, and I stop dead, stunned. “I want you, Katniss. I want us, so much. I want to do all of this together.” She’s 8 feet away, but the gulf feels miles wide. “I want to get married, and spend Sunday mornings in the bakery making cookies with our children.” I trail off; she’s shaking her head, just slightly, and for once I haven’t a clue what she’s thinking. “I love you, I always will. But… what I want, more than anything, is for you to be happy. You deserve to be happy. Whether that’s with me, or not.”

 

The words hang in between us, echoed by the thundering in my chest. Her eyes shine with unshed tears, but her expression doesn’t change.

 

“I need to go,” she mumbles. I reach for her again, but she evades me, stalking out the office door and through the kitchen.

 

“Katniss, please?” My voice cracks, every syllable raw.  

 

“I have to go,” she repeats, not even looking back. And she walks away.

 

* * *

 

 

I don’t chase her, don’t call, don’t text. I let her have the night without my interference, to think, to process everything I dropped on her.  

 

After a mostly sleepless night, I text her when I wake up, to remind her that I’m thinking about her, and that I love her.  There’s no response, though I’m not honestly surprised by that.

 

At noon I try to call; we’ve spoken to each other over lunch every day for a couple of weeks now, but her phone goes straight to voicemail. I leave her a message, trying to sound lighthearted, as if I’m not dying inside. As if she’s not holding my soul in her hands.

 

My phone is quiet all day.  

 

I’m home by 5:30; I couldn’t bear to spend another minute at the bakery, trying to pretend I was okay. But she doesn’t call for our typical evening chat. She doesn’t answer when I call her either. I send texts, trying not to seem as frantic as I am, trying not to be as pushy as I want to be. But silence prevails.

 

And I find myself in exactly the same place I was four weeks ago, lying on my couch, devastated, wallowing in despair and self-loathing. But 4 weeks ago I at least had hope. 4 weeks ago I thought I could fix this.

 

Now all I have is searing emptiness. I tried to do what I thought was right, but I’ve made everything worse, pushed her away somehow. Maybe forever.

 

A pulse of anger grips me. I’ve made changes, real changes this time, I’ve kept her in the loop, tried to include her in the decisions, tried to make her see that she’s the most important piece. And she’s pushing me away, won’t even hear me out. The unfairness of it pisses me off, and I narrowly resist the urge to trash my own home, instead turning to a bottle of Jack Daniels…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't stone me! I promise, there'll be a HEA, but life is not a straight line, and neither is this story :)


	9. Chapter 9

I wake up on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, damp and woozy and enveloped in the stench of vomit, but with no clear idea of how I got here. Thin morning light creeps through the window; it’s early, but that doesn’t matter. I’d already told my employees I wouldn’t be in today. I was planning on spending the day getting ready to take Katniss away for the weekend, so that the car would be packed and waiting when she finished work. But I guess that’s not happening anymore.

 

I’m still not going in to work though, half drunk and feeling completely shitty as I am. Staggering downstairs for some Aspirin, I make it no further than the living room before my pounding head compels me to collapse onto the couch and into the blackness.

 

In my nightmare a cannon blasts over and over, each boom announcing the death of someone I love. When I jerk awake, sweating and shaking, I realize it's not a cannon but someone pounding on my front door. 

 

Katniss.

 

Her eyes widen as I fling open the door, unwashed, unshaven, stinking and with couch creases on my cheek. “Peeta?”

 

I grunt, turning for the kitchen, not even waiting to see if she'll follow. She does though. As I chug water, leaning heavily against the counter and still trembling with the vestiges of my nightmare, she sets the tea kettle to boil and pulls saltines out of the pantry. 

 

I don't have the first clue what to say to her. Maybe I should apologize for my appearance, but I don't. Instead, I stare out the window, the green of our yard almost violent in my aching eyes. When she lays her hand on my back I flinch, despite the gentleness of the motion. She's unperturbed; rubbing slow circles while she stands just behind me. We remain, unspeaking, until the kettle begins to shriek. 

 

While she silences the screaming I move to the kitchen table, falling gracelessly into a chair, the scraping of wooden legs across tile yet another contribution to the agony in my head. The cool tabletop does little to soothe me, but I press my face to it anyway. 

 

I'm pretty sure Jack Daniels is Satan himself. I haven't felt this rancid since college. 

 

I lift my head at the quiet clink of ceramic on wood to find Katniss holding out a pair of white tablets to me. I can only grimace, but I do take them, and swallow them dry. 

 

She sits quietly, sipping a cup of tea while I slouch and glare at my own cup, a sleeve of crackers lying in wait. I'm not one for the silent treatment, usually by now I'd have long since given in. But I have nothing left to say. Finally she breaks the standoff. 

 

“I'm sorry.” I fight against the innate desire to absolve her immediately and hold my tongue. But I do lift my eyes to hers. Those mercury pools are wide and wary; I know what it’s costing her to speak first. But I say nothing. She sighs, but not in frustration. “It was really immature of me to ignore my phone yesterday. You didn’t deserve that.”

 

Against my better judgement a question slips out. “Then why?” She understands what I'm trying to ask, knows how it destroys me when she’s out of contact. Knows how deep my fear of abandonment truly runs. 

 

“You blindsided me, Peeta. You made all of these plans, talked to all of these people without ever once mentioning any of it, even though we were talking every day.” She closes her eyes, as if to hide the emotion in them from me. “I thought we were communicating better, but it's just like before. You only share slivers of your life with me.” She sighs and silence descends again. But she's not done. I can tell she has more to get off her chest. 

 

“Do you remember when we were kids,” she whispers, finally. “You used to tell me everything, every thought that popped into your head, every dream. You shared everything with me. That's what best friends do. It hasn't been like that since you opened the bakery. And… and I thought we were getting that back. I miss my best friend, Peeta.” My eyes burn with tears. 

 

“I miss you too. I miss us!”

 

“Do you? You've got everything together, all of these plans. And me? I'm still just trying to figure out how to get through the nights without you.”

 

“Fuck,” I laugh harshly. “You think I have anything figured out? Look at me! I'm a fucking mess without you!” I drop my head into my hands, thumbs rubbing my aching temples. “I'm so tired, Katniss,” I admit. “I don't know what to do anymore.”

 

“Me either,” she says softly. We lapse back into silence; she plays with her teacup, I watch her slender fingers.

 

“You didn’t text me this morning.” It’s so quiet I barely catch it. I squint at her through bleary eyes, and wave my hand, indicating my barely coherent state.

 

“I wasn’t exactly conscious.”  

 

She nods. “I went to the bakery, I was worried. But you weren’t there.”

 

“I took the day off.”

 

“I know. Thresh told me. Told me you were home, packing for the weekend.”

 

“That was the plan.” I can’t keep the bitterness out of my voice. I’m not angry at her, not really. Just pissed off in general. Angry with myself, angry that I keep fucking things up. Just angry.

 

“And what’s the plan now?” My breath catches, and despite my better judgement my heart speeds up.

 

“What… what do you mean?”

 

“I mean, Thresh told me a lot of other things too. How excited you are about changing the bakery. How hard you're trying to delegate, to let go. That… that you want to do things differently.”  There's a long pause. “For me,” she whispers. 

 

“For us, Katniss. So we can have the life we deserve. For our future.” 

 

“Why aren't you the one telling me these things, Peeta? I… I really need to know that you even want me in that future.” 

 

“I tried to tell you,” I plead, “at the bakery, but you ran off.”

 

“You dumped so much on me that night, Peeta, I was so confused. I couldn't tell what was real, what you actually meant.”

 

“All of it,” my voice rises in frustration. “I meant every word!”

 

“We haven't talked about the future in a long time, how am I supposed to know what you're thinking?” Her tears spill over and I immediately regret the sharpness of my tone. I jump out of my chair despite the headache and wooziness. Katniss never cries.

 

“Please don't cry!” I pull her into my arms and she lets me, clinging to me as quiet sobs shake her small frame. “Us, together, Katniss it's all I want. Nothing else matters. Nothing in my life makes sense without you.” Tears slide silently down my face, wetting her hair as we rock in the afternoon sunshine. 

 

When I think I can speak again I pull back, holding her by the shoulders, staring into damp, grey eyes filled with loneliness. I've hurt her so much. I will spend the rest of my life regretting that. “Our future… us… we are my priority. Like we used to be. Like it should have been all along. I was stupid and selfish but my eyes are open now, I promise you that.” At that she smiles a little, looks almost hopeful and my traitorous heart lifts. “And Katniss? If the new changes at the bakery don't work, if I'm still spending too much time there a month from now…?” I close my eyes tightly. “Then we'll sell it.” 

 

I can hear her gasp. “You can't sell the bakery, Peeta.”

 

“I can't lose you.” I shake my head sadly. “The bakery is just a job. I'll find another.” I mean it too; I love the idea of my bakery, my family business. But I don't love the life I'm living now, it's hollow and it's killing me. Killing my future. So I tell her that. 

 

She moves back into my arms, looking up at me, resolve in her steely eyes. I'd be frightened if not for the way her hands grip the back of my t-shirt like it's a lifeline. Like I'm her lifeline. “We need to talk, Peeta. Really talk.” She chews on her lip; the skin is ragged, a clear sign that she’s been worrying it repeatedly. She does that when she’s stressed. But she presses forward. “And... there’s an empty cabin… right? No distractions?”

 

I struggle to wrap my head around what she’s saying. “You… you still want to go away with me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why?” My voice cracks; I don’t know if I’ve ever sounded so pathetic. But when she speaks she sounds just as broken.

 

“Because I love you. Because I don't want to give up. When you didn't call this morning, when you wouldn’t answer my calls… I thought... I thought…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and instinctively I pull her against my chest, tucking her head under my chin. Where it has always belonged. “I want us to work, Peeta. Please?”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yeah,” she says shyly.

 

\---

 

I shower away the stink of vomit and misery; when I emerge from the ensuite wrapped in a towel she's packing a bag for me. “I'll let you get dressed,” she says, a pretty flush painting her cheeks as she heads for the bedroom door. 

 

“I don't care if you see me.” She snickers, and shakes her head. But she stays. “How come you’re here so early, anyway?” With my head at least slightly clearer I realize it’s not even one in the afternoon.

 

“My sophomores have a field trip this afternoon,” she says simply before lapsing back into silence, flashing me a nervous smile that suggests maybe it’s more involved than that. But I don’t push. 

 

When I’m pulling boxers from my drawer I catch a glimpse of her in the mirror. Checking out my ass. The temptation to tease her is almost overwhelming. But I hesitate. I really don’t know where we stand, what we are right now. It’s just not the time.

 

Katniss drives. It would be the perfect time to start talking, but instead I sleep most of the way, only waking when she stops at a small grocery not far from our destination. 

 

We shop in silence, but in sync. 

 

I take the wheel for the last ten miles while she navigates, mostly down dirt roads that test my stomach, but her gasp as we crest a hill and the lake appears before us brings the day’s first smile to my lips.

 

The brochure pictures didn’t do it justice. The water is a cobalt jewel nestled in a valley of verdant green. Dappled sun glints on the surface, sparkling. Magical. And though I know there are other cabins along this lake I can’t see a single other one. It’s the absolute definition of seclusion.

 

Katniss leaps out of the car as soon as I stop it, and I chuckle. Her excitement is infectious. I kind of expect her to tear off towards the shore, instead she circles the car, half dragging me from the seat, and we approach the water together.

 

There’s no beach to speak of, the shoreline is mostly grasses, but there’s a long wooden dock, and an older motorboat moored there. “Should be poles and tackle in the cabin,” I tell her. And she laughs. 

 

“You thought of everything.” 

 

“Not quite,” I admit. “No bait.” Her smile is luminous. 

 

“We can fix that.”

 

We tuck our bags inside the cabin. It's definitely rustic, one main room with a separate bath. The kitchen setup is wholly inadequate but there's a propane grill on the deck. We’ll make do. 

 

There's a huge stone fireplace taking up one wall, a pair of chairs in front of it. And in the corner, a four poster bed, canopied in swathes of gauzy mosquito netting. 

 

It's the only bed, the only sleeping surface of any kind. Katniss runs her fingers through the fabric folds, glancing over her shoulder at me in an unintentionally seductive way. She'll never understand, the effect she has. 

 

Katniss heads outside to dig up bait; I leave her to it. It's not that I'm squeamish exactly. It's just that, okay, I'm completely squeamish. But she doesn't seem to mind. And it gives me an opportunity to determine whether I'm even going to be able to bake a cake in this easy-bake-sized relic of an oven. From the 50s, I think. I guess as long as it'll maintain its temperature I should be able to put together something for her birthday. 

 

Satisfied that it'll do, I join Katniss on the dock. She's already gathered the poles and gear, and has a plastic container of vile little wriggling worms at the ready. She grins widely as she pulls me into the boat, and starts the engine.

 

The lake is gorgeous, all sparkling water and rippled reflections. But I only have eyes for Katniss. Her own eyes are wide with wonder, hair streaming behind her as she pilots the boat across the water and finds what she deems an appropriate place to stop. 

 

Little waves lap at the hull, lulling us both. Katniss fishes, I sit behind her, my arms wrapped around her as she leans into me. It doesn't take long before she catches a couple of sleek pickerel. She beams as she reels each in, teasing me lightly as my own rod lays, unbaited, in the bottom of the boat. 

 

And though I know we have a lot of things to sort out, I can't resist cuddling like we used to. It feels so good and so right to nuzzle her neck, to bury my face in the sweetness of her loose hair. She sighs softly, contentedly.

 

I can't lose this. I can't lose  _ her _ . 

 

“I'm sorry,” I murmur into her soft waves, just barely audibly. She stiffens, but I don't stop. “I'm sorry for all of the times I didn't tell you how much I love you. I'm sorry for all of the times you had to go to bed alone, and all of the times you've woken up alone.”

 

She tries to turn, but I tighten my arms. “I'm sorry,” I rasp, “for all of the times I wasn't there to hear about your day, for all the times I was there but wasn't listening.” My voice cracks, and I press my lips to the back of her neck, drinking in the strength and comfort of her closeness, however selfishly. I can feel her head swivel as she tries to look at me. But I can't meet her eyes. I keep my face pressed firmly above her spine. 

 

I'm holding her tightly enough to be a human straight jacket, but she doesn't push me away, doesn't complain. The fishing rod gets tossed aside. Her hands grip my forearms, trace soothing designs on my skin as I tremble. It settles me, lets me continue. “I'm sorry for all of the things I haven't shared with you. For all of the times I didn't tell you what I was thinking.” She shakes her head; the little hairs at her nape tickle my lips. But she doesn’t interrupt. I take a deep breath of the clean mountain air, tinged with the scent of her, the fragrance that fills my soul, charges me, makes me feel complete. Tears streak down my face, wetting her hair, her neck, the shirt she wears. “I’m sorry,” I finally continue. “That I didn’t share all of my hopes with you, all of the things I wanted, was planning for. But I promise, I have never, ever, even once stopped dreaming of our future together. And I… fuck,” I choke. “Katniss, I can’t envision any kind of future without you in it. I know I’ve screwed things up so badly. But I will never stop loving you.”

 

Whatever I’d intended on saying next is lost as I break down. She pulls away; I don’t stop her. But then her arms wrap around me, firm, steady, and she pulls me against her chest.

 

We stay that way a long time. She strokes my hair and hums as I clutch her. Dusk starts to gather along the shoreline, the last of the sunbeams bathe her in radiance, crown her in gold. I can't stop myself from whispering, “You are so beautiful.” She smiles softly, like an angel. The love I feel for her almost overwhelms me. I feel exposed, naked. My soul bared. 

 

“Let's head back to shore,” she murmurs. 

 

\---

 

I lay a fire in the huge fireplace once we get back. The dry wood catches quickly, filling the small room with warmth. 

 

Katniss cleans and filets the fish, I grill them and make a salad. We are both quiet, introspective, but we move around each other in this unfamiliar place with the kind of synchronicity we always used to share. 

 

I feel like a dishrag, limp and drained, but with all of my emotions just under the surface, ready to erupt at any point. So tired. A month of aching, of feeling incomplete. Like I'm missing a limb. A piece of myself. My emotions have never been so out of control before. So raw.

 

We eat our food perched in armchairs, in front of the fireplace. There's something soothing about fire, the radiant warmth, the crackling sounds, the play of light and shadow. It's almost hypnotic. But Katniss is fidgety; I know she’s trying to psyche herself up to talk. It doesn’t take too long before she begins.

 

“You left me behind,” she says softly. I glance over at her, but she’s contemplating the flames. “You were gone long before I moved out.” I nod, but she doesn’t see. Nor does she need to, we both know what I did. How I ignored and neglected her,  _ us _ , for months. “You didn’t even notice, did you? At first? That I wasn’t there?” She doesn’t look at me. I’m loathe to confess that I didn’t. But she already knows. I can see it. “I didn’t leave to punish you, or to try to make you change,” she says, so quietly I have to strain to hear. “I just... I didn’t think there was anything left worth fighting for.”

 

Nothing worth fighting for. Everything we’d built together, everything we’d experienced, none of it worth saving. That gives me pause. I guess I always assumed our separation was temporary, that it was designed to be a wake-up call for me. To hear that Katniss viewed it as permanent, maybe still does. That she believed we were through, forever… being strangled would be less painful. I bite my lip, to keep myself from begging. She needs to talk. And I need to hear her. To really listen.

 

“The first time we spoke after I left,” she continues. “You were so upset, crying. I… well honestly, I was shocked.” She glances over at me, but looks away quickly. “I didn’t think you loved me anymore.”

 

“Katniss,” I breathe, and it’s a plea. That I have ever given her any reason to doubt my love for her is the worst thing I’ve done in my life. She shakes her head, just slightly.

 

“I know,” she says, still staring at the fire. “But it felt like it, Peeta. It felt like I’d lost you. We never talked, never really interacted at all. We… we hadn’t been a real couple in a long time.” The waver in her voice is more pronounced, but her expression is stoic. She turns, finally. There’s anger in her eyes, under all of the pain. “And then you started calling me every day, and talking to me, making me feel like I was important to you. You brought me dandelions! You were acting like the Peeta I remembered. The one... I missed so much. And, well… I guess I got my hopes up.” 

 

I start to speak but she stops me. “No,” she says firmly. “I need to get this out, Peeta.” And I nod, as she continues. “At the bakery, with Chaff, I had no idea any of that was coming. You caught me completely off guard. We’d never spoken about any of it, but there you were with everything all finalized. It felt like nothing this past month was real, like we were right back where we were before, with you living in your own world that didn't include me. 

 

“That's why I didn't take your calls. I was so mad, so damned angry! I felt so betrayed. I just… I wanted to hurt you. To make you feel as awful as I did.” She pauses to catch her breath, lip trembling but expression fierce. “I called out from work, and drove out to the cemetery.” My lips twitch, in spite of myself. I should have known. Katniss goes there to talk to her parents when she's troubled. She's always found it easier to confide in a marble slab than a living person. Though she's doing remarkably well talking tonight. It hurts like hell to hear her, to hear all of the things she held so tightly for so long. But I'm intensely proud of her bravery. 

 

“It took me awhile,” she murmurs. “To see it. That you were trying to protect me.” She shifts in her chair, leaning towards me. “And it made me feel worse, ignoring you,” she confesses. “And this morning, when I saw you…” She shakes her head, reaches for my hands. I cling to hers, she's my lifeline, my salvation. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I don't want to hurt anymore, Peeta. Either of us.”

 

“Me either,” I whisper. 

 

She lapses into silence, playing with my fingers. The firelight dances across her face, highlighting her fine bone structure, bathing her in my favourite colour. The anger, the sadness and resignation have melted away from her expression. She looks calm, almost content, for the first time in a very long time. And though I'm loathe to break the spell, I have to know. “Where do we go from here?”

 

She doesn't lift her eyes, speaking instead to our joined hands. “When I was at the cemetery, I tried to imagine what… What it would be like. To move on. To date, or meet someone else. To… to fall in love.” She meets my eyes, I'm sure the ache of her words is written across my face. “I couldn't do it, Peeta. I couldn't imagine my life with someone else. Without you.” The relief, the sick, selfish all-encompassing relief that flows through me makes me equal parts giddy and ashamed. The barest hint of a smile lifts her sweet lips. “I realized, I can survive just fine without you. But I don't want to. I want us.”

 

“Yes, fuck.” I gasp, no other words coming to me. I press my lips to our hands. She squeezes mine tightly. 

 

“Peeta,” her voice soft but serious. “Things have to change. I can't… I won't live like that again.”

 

“No,” I agree. “Never again. I promise.” She stands, moving in front of me. I don't hesitate to pull her into my arms, cradled on my lap. I never want to let her go. After the roller coaster of emotions, all I can think is that she's in my arms, and I am never going to take that for granted again. 

 

“I promise too,” she murmurs against my throat. “I promise I'll talk to you. That I'll tell you if things…” She trails off, sighing. “I know I'm not very good at saying things. I bottle things up. That's not fair either.”

 

“Together,” I nod, kissing her hair. “Like before. We’ll figure it out together.”

 

I can't stop touching her, can't still my hands. The silk of her hair beckons, my fingers weave amidst the strands. But I’m exhausted, physically and emotionally. She stifles a giggle when she feels me yawning against her hair. She leans back to look at my face and her eyes are soft. Loving. 

 

We don't even wash the dishes before she tugs me to the huge bed in the corner. She undresses me with such gentleness, tender, loving. Stripping away the layers between us. Peeling off her own clothes until we are skin to skin, bodies and souls both bared. 

 

“Thank you,” she whispers, but I’m not sure what she's thanking me for. 

 

I fall asleep quickly, pressed tightly against my love under a cloud-like duvet. Cradled in her arms. Safe.

 

\---

 

I wake up sometime in the night. Only a hint of moonlight filters through the netting around our bed oasis. Katniss is still pressed snugly against me, our legs entwined under the covers. And I smile, content and sure. I know we still have so much work to do, so many hurts to repair. But we’ll get there. We’re going to make it. I’m certain of it.

 

I stroke her hair, kiss her forehead, and fall back asleep.


	10. Chapter 10

An alarm splits the early morning silence, and she groans. I chuckle, pressed snugly against her back, my lips brushing the nape of her neck. I’ve been awake at least an hour already, waiting. But as soon as she turns off the racket, I pounce. In a heartbeat, I have her pinned under me, nuzzling her throat, musky and sleep-warm.

“Peeta,” she whines, though there’s a hint of laughter in her voice. “It’s too early.”

“It’s the first day of school, Miss Everdeen,” I chide. “It’s a big, big, big day!” She’s wiggling now as I pepper kisses along her shoulders, nip her collarbone with my teeth.

She groans. “You know it’s just meetings this week. The students don’t come back until next Monday.” I do know that. But I also know after a long summer away, she's anxious to get back to her class.

“Hmmm,” I hum against her throat and she squirms. “But that’s only a week to get your classroom set up,” I mumble, even as I drag my lips lower, pressing the words into the warm valley between her perfect bare breasts. Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging until my lips are aligned with one flawless peak. She groans as I suckle the taut bud into the heat of my mouth. She has such perfect breasts, I could spend all day enjoying them. But even half asleep she’s impatient.

“Peeta,” she whines, arching against me. I know what she wants, but I have ninety minutes before she has to leave for work, and I intend on filling every one of them.

“Patience, my love,” I smile, moving back up to kiss her properly. “You are so beautiful.”

Her silver eyes light up with pleasure. “You're beautiful too,” she whispers.

Our lovemaking, always good, has been phenomenal this summer. And not just because I've gotten my head out of my ass. Our month-long separation - and the hard work we've done since reuniting - has emboldened Katniss. She's better now at telling me what she wants, both in bed and in life. And I'm better at listening.

Her fingers twist in my hair again and she kisses me, hard. But I pull back, just a little. Just enough to slow our pace. Kissing Katniss is exquisite. I’ve always loved kissing her, but for far too long I really didn’t appreciate how incredible the simple feeling of her soft lips under mine could be. How erotic it is to breathe through her. To lose myself in exploring every delicious inch. And though she whimpers and bucks, I keep kissing her with maddening restraint, pulling back just a little each time she tries to rush us along. Savouring her.

Until her hand slides between us, gripping me firmly. I break our kiss to gasp and curse. “Oh fuck, Katniss,” I groan, bucking into her soft hand. She squeezes a little tighter, then laughs as I shudder.

“You’re insatiable, Mr. Mellark,” she purrs, but she’s smiling.

“Only for you, love. Only ever for you.”

“I know,” she whispers. And she does. I’ve spent the past four months making sure of that. Never missing an opportunity to show her how insanely attracted I am to her. Loving her every occasion I get. Never letting myself lose sight of how lucky I am to have a second chance.

Katniss is diminutive in stature, but strong; she flips us in a move that’d make my old wrestling coach proud, straddling me and grinning. She strokes my chest with both hands, stubby nails raking through the hair there, making me erupt in goosebumps. Her ebony locks fall in tangled waves around her gorgeous face, caress the tops of her breasts. She’s a goddess, still naked from our bedtime activities, flawless olive skin glowing in the shafts of sunlight that stream through our open window. My hands are drawn like magnets to her slender waist and I trace tickling circles over her jutting hipbones, where I know she’s sensitive. She rewards me with an erotic swivel of her hips. Any thought of going slow is dashed. I grip her more tightly, trying to align her centre with my aching cock, but she shakes her head, and slides backwards.

Her eyes gleam with mischief as she hovers over my dick, each soft breath brushing over the sensitive head. She licks her lips and I groan, arching helplessly. “Patience, love,” she mocks, but with no malice. Then her lips, soft and wet, press a feather-light kiss at the base of my cock, and I nearly lose my mind.

“Please,” I beg. “Katniss. Please?” I’m practically hyperventilating. But she just smiles.

She nuzzles my thigh, looking up at me through thick lashes, eyes full of love. I am the luckiest fucking man on the planet. I reach down to brush her hair away from her face and she kisses my wrist. “I love you,” she murmurs, just before her sleek pink tongue traces a long line up my shaft and I moan. Then she smirks, and in one fluid motion takes half my cock into the heat of her mouth.

I nearly choke on my own tongue. Sugar and spice, that's my Katniss.

She moves slowly, humming around my dick and doing that thing with her tongue that makes me feel like I have pure electricity running through my veins. I grab fistfuls of the sheets, chanting her name and bits of nonsense.

She lifts her eyes to mine, shimmering pools of lust. Then she gently tugs on my sac.

I bolt upright, howling. “Oh fuck, love, you've gotta stop. I don't want to come yet.” Katniss laughs around my dick, enjoying how I lose control when she touches me. She releases me, pressing one final wet kiss to my twitching head before crawling back up my body.

Katniss hovers over me, grinning, and I cup her gorgeous face in both hands, kissing her languidly while I try to get my dick back under control. Kissing every freckle scattered over her pert nose, her rosy cheeks, that spot under her jaw that makes her mewl.

I roll her under me. Her fingers tangle in my hair again but only gently stroking as she lets me take the lead.

Sliding into her wet heat is like coming home, it’s as close to heaven as I can imagine. I have to pause, just to fully appreciate the incredible feeling. She wraps her lean legs around me, and her sigh of pleasure is like music.

I stare into her silver eyes as I start to move, focussing on her, only her, always her. We rock together, each slow stroke accompanied by a soft groan or whispered curse. Drawing out our pleasure. She grabs my hands, curling her fingers around mine. I lean down and kiss her, enjoying the incredible feeling of being joined in almost every way possible.

There’s no rush, we make love as if we have all the time in the world. As if nothing exists outside of this bed, nothing but her and me and us, together.

But I'm only human, and I'm already so close. She knows. She tugs my earlobe between her teeth, and I shudder. Then she starts whispering in my ear. “You feel so good, Peeta,” she purrs. “So good. I love the way you fill me.”

I can barely breathe through the wall of pleasure. She knows what her words do to me, each is a lightning bolt straight to my dick. I let go of her hands and push up on my knees, the new angle makes her cry out and that simple song nearly has me blowing my load. As it is, I only manage a half dozen hard thrusts before I'm coming, grunting out curses and praise. She follows, her velvet walls fluttering and pulsing around my dick, milking every drop of my release.

I collapse onto the bed beside Katniss and pull her tightly against me. For several long minutes we simply breathe together, hands caressing, murmuring compliments, sharing light kisses. And my thoughts stay focussed on the here and now, on her, on us. Practicing mindfulness isn’t easy for me, and it certainly doesn’t come naturally. But Katniss in all of her post-orgasmic glow is a pretty spectacular thing to concentrate on. Finally, she sighs. “Time to get up,” she murmurs.

She’s right, it is. I kiss the tip of her pert nose. “I’ll make you pancakes while you get ready,” I offer, but she shakes her head. “Waffles?” She bought me a waffle iron for my birthday over the summer, though it turned out to be more a gift for her. Lazy Sunday breakfasts in bed with Belgian waffles and whipped cream are a new favourite, though I won’t tell Finnick that we’ve used all of his sexual whipped cream suggestions, and then some.

“Come shower with me,” she smiles. And there’s no way I’m going to say no to that.

Our shower is slow and sensual, I love washing her hair, feeling her slick body pressed against mine. Which of course leads to some heavy making out. I slip away from her though, reluctantly, before I can beg for round two.

Tugging on shorts and a polo, I head for the kitchen and mix up batter for pancakes. She might have said no to them before, but I know she’s hungry, and I know her days go more smoothly with a proper breakfast.

It’s Sam Smith filling our kitchen from the docking station when she sneaks up behind me on silent feet. “Are you going to the bakery today?” she asks, laying her cheek on my back.

“Nope,” I tell her as I swivel to wrap an arm around her, plating our breakfast one-handed. “You know it’s my day off.”

One of the biggest changes I made in the aftermath of our separation happened almost accidentally. Just a week after we got back from Katniss’s birthday weekend at the lake, and just days after she moved back home officially, Dalton, my weekend baker, announced he was retiring because of his wife’s health. Old Peeta would have flown into a tailspin, taken on all of the extra responsibilities, fretted and worked myself half to death rather than ask for help.

Instead, I sat down with Katniss and Thresh. And together, we made the decision not to replace Dalton.

So now, instead of a weekend baker, I do the Saturday morning baking. It gives me one day a week in the kitchen, doing the things I had always dreamed of when I envisioned my bakery. Baking, creating - it’s done incredible things for my quality of life. I’m happier, I enjoy going to the bakery, especially the Saturday mornings that Katniss joins me. She’s taken so much more interest in the bakery now too, now that she doesn’t have to compete with it for my attention. Now that she knows my priority will always be her.

But in exchange for taking over the Saturday morning baking shift, I agreed to close the bakery entirely on Sundays. It turned out to be a wise move, we were barely breaking even on Sundays anyway, and being completely closed helps me to have at least one day a week where there is no temptation to sneak in, to check up on what’s going on, to work ‘just a couple of hours’.

To make up for working Saturday mornings, and to ensure that Katniss and I have real time together every week, I also now take Mondays off. It was really hard, at first, to commit to a day one hundred percent away from the bakery when it was open. But the benefits of taking back that time for myself have been staggering. It was incredible to have a whole summer with Katniss where we had a true two day weekend together every single week. We went camping, hosted barbeques with our friends, even painted our living room, finally. We’ve grown so much closer, thanks to time spent together. I’ve fallen more and more in love with her too.

Now that she’s going back to work, I’ll use the day to putter around the house, cook meals, clean, spend time in my painting studio, maybe go to the gym. So seeing me dressed in something slightly more upstanding than sweats must be confusing her. “Thought I’d drop by and check on Haymitch later this morning,” I tell her.

She smiles. Her smiles are so much freer now, genuine happiness shining through. “I know he’d like that,” she says.

We eat side-by-side at our little kitchen table, and chat about our plans for the day. When I ask if I can come to the school and have lunch with her, she laughs, teasing me about separation anxiety. But she agrees readily. “And I’m hoping to finish that painting today too,” I admit. I’ve been working bit by bit on a large landscape, for Thom and Delly’s nursery. Their baby girl is due in about two months, and the painting will be our gift for the baby shower that’s happening in less than two weeks.

“Mmmmm,” Katniss sighs, resting her head on my shoulder. “They’re going to love it so much.” After a pause, she continues. “Maybe the next one could be for us?”

The smile that stretches across my face could probably be seen from space. I know what she’s hinting at. She’s not talking about making paintings to decorate our home - I’ve already done a few that hang in the living room and our bedroom. She’s telling me, in her Katniss way, that she hopes we’ll be decorating a nursery of our own someday soon.

We’re not pregnant yet. But over the past four months, we’ve begun talking about the future - our future, together. As Katniss has gotten more confident that the changes I’m making are real, that I’m committed to our relationship, she’s been more open and vocal about what she wants for us. We’ve started talking about marriage and children in the abstract at least. But I think she’s hinting that she’s ready to move beyond abstract thinking.

I hope so, anyway.

“A field of dandelions,” I tell her. It isn’t the first time I’ve thought about it, not by a long shot. Fantasizing about our future occupies much of the space I’ve cleared out by obsessing less about the bakery.

That’s not to say I don’t obsess anymore, I do, and still too frequently. I definitely screw up still too, get lost in working and lose track of time, forget to take breaks. But now when it happens, Katniss points it out, or Thresh does. And I’m getting better about seeing it too, catching myself before I fall too far. I’ll probably always be a workaholic, at my core. But I’m surrounded by people who are willing to help me, people I trust. I’m not alone.

She lifts her head, eyes shining, and kisses me.

I’d like nothing more than to spend the rest of the morning kissing Katniss, and I know she’s equally reluctant to leave me. But duty calls. She grabs her satchel and I pick up the box of supplies she packed last evening, so I can carry it to the car for her. But I hang back just a little in the entryway, watching her. “Peeta?” she calls out, confusion in her voice. “Do you know where my keys are? I thought I left them in my purse?”

My heart is hammering and my palms sweat. “I, uh,” I have to pause and clear my throat. “I think they’re on the foyer table.” She walks the few steps from closet to table, topped with a huge bouquet of sunset orange gerbera daisies. Then she stops, and I can hear her breath catch.

I’ve already set the box down, and closed the few steps between us. Her keys are indeed on the table - I know, I put them there. But instead of the cheesy oversized glass ring keychain she’s had since we were young, they’re tied to a red ribbon that holds a much tinier, but very real, engagement ring. “Peeta?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the blood rushing in my ears. I reach for her hands, tugging her gently to face me.

Then I kneel before her.

Her musical laughter bubbles out, and before I can begin the speech I’ve memorized she drops to her knees too, and throws her arms around me. Then we’re kissing and laughing and crying, kneeling together in the foyer of our home.

I pull back, just enough to lock eyes with Katniss, and reach up to unravel the ribbon, grabbing the ring. It’s a simple solitaire, elegant, just like Katniss. I brush a tear from her cheek, cup her face in my hand. Even though I’m fairly certain I know the answer, I still need to ask the question. “Katniss, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” she laughs before I’ve even finished. “Yes, yes, yes!” I slide the ring onto her finger, and we both stare at it in awe for a few seconds, watching the light refract off the diamond facets, bathing us in dancing rainbows. Then she tackles me, pinning me to the floor, kissing me hard, her tongue curling aggressively around my own.

We kiss and laugh and kiss more, until we’re stiff from lying on the floor. “You're going to be late, love,” I mumble between kisses. I don't want her to go, but I know she should.

“Screw it,” she says, eyes sparkling. “I don't have any meetings until this afternoon. I'd rather spend the morning with my fiancé.” I like the sound of that.

Hand in hand, we climb the stairs and crawl back into bed together. And in between kisses and cuddles, we make plans. Together.

I know we're going to be all right. Our relationship has been sorely tested, and I'm sure we’ll weather more storms in the future. But I know they won’t break us. In the end, our love is strong enough to bend.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that concludes Bend. Thanks for coming along for the ride. I've really loved these characters and their world.

**Author's Note:**

> The song lyrics at the beginning come from the Tanya Tucker song of the same title (not a fan of the song, but the lyrics are beautiful). This isn't a songfic, but the words resonated with me and with this story.


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